


There Will Be Paperwork

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Aliens, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Babies, Blasphemy, Blindfolds, Bondage, Clone Sex, Clones, Co-Parenting, Coming Untouched, Costumes, Crack, Crossover, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Discord: O Lord Heal This Server, Discorporation (Good Omens), Double Penetration, Dream Sex, Dreams, Drug Use, Egg Laying, Eggs, Eldritch, Embarrassment, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Fruit, Future Fic, Historical, Humor, Idiots in Love, Inhuman Genitalia, Lingerie, Love, M/M, Macro/Micro, Magic Tricks, Masturbation, Morning After, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Penetration, Naga Crowley (Good Omens), Necrophilia (implied), Nipple Play, Pegging, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prophecies, Public Sex, Rimming, Roleplay, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Sex while Under the Influence, Sex with Snake Form Crowley (Good Omens), Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Roleplay, Snake Anatomy, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Spanking, Summoning, Surprises, Suspension, Temporary Character Death, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, The Antichrist, clone orgy, implied threesome, inhuman anatomy, reverse au, sexual fantasies, snake sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:00:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 24,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24752785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: Collection of short Good Omens works, mostly under 1000 words. Written for a variety of crack prompts and games.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Other(s)
Comments: 1601
Kudos: 1037
Collections: The Not-Very-Nice and Anatomically-Inaccurate Prophecies of OLHTS





	1. For Your Entertainment

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt 'Aziraphale's magic act.' (humour, magic, implied threesome)

"Is this going to take long?" 

Aziraphale pulls a face, which clearly calls for enthusiasm and patience rather than griping.

"Fine, fine." Crowley crosses his arms and huffs his way into a chair. "But I'm only putting up with this because your sad and desperate need for an audience provokes the one molecule of sympathy I have in my body."

Aziraphale disappears behind the 'stage' that he's created in the space between two shelves, using sheets and three pushed-together tables. It's currently hidden behind a long, red curtain, which looks incredibly cheap. Crowley suspects Aziraphale would insist that was part of its charm.

The curtain is dramatically tugged away, to reveal an enormous tank of water, the hatch at the top angled open.

Crowley makes a vaguely disgusted noise. "An underwater escape, really?" 

He watches Aziraphale demonstrate the sturdiness of the tank, as if there are fifty other people watching and not just one bored demon. Then he handcuffs himself, tosses Crowley the key and climbs inside.

"This is ridiculous," Crowley tells him, loudly. He sinks lower in his chair, as a form of protest.

Aziraphale makes an overly dramatic show of struggling underwater.

"You're ridiculous," Crowley says. "You don't even need to breathe."

There's a heroic strain at the handcuffs, a panicked puffing of cheeks.

"And you're over-acting, you always over-act. You take all the tension out of it. You can't even -"

"Ta Da!" Aziraphale's voice says, right next to Crowley's ear.

"FUCKING SHIT!" Crowley lunges out of the chair, crashes into a stack of books, and ends up on the floor, tangled around at least three chair legs.

Aziraphale is leaning over him, completely dry, smiling like the smuggest fucking bastard imaginable. Crowley takes a second to quietly fume, and to convince his organs that they belong inside him.

"Aziraphale," he says slowly. "Did you make a double of yourself?"

Aziraphale lifts a finger. "No, I acquired an _unrevealed twin_." The smile expands, like he thinks he's been terribly clever. 

Crowley shakes his head in disgust, as best as he can while lying on the floor.

"Still cheating," he hisses.

There's the wet patter of feet, and a second Aziraphale is looking down at Crowley from the other side. They're easy to tell apart at this point, because the second is very wet, and still wearing handcuffs.

"You didn't even get out of the handcuffs," Crowley points out, irritably.

Aziraphale actually looks embarrassed about that. The second Aziraphale gathers his hands together and looks embarrassed too.

"There are still some kinks to work out," he allows. 

Now there's a thought. Crowley carefully untangles himself from the chair and rises, dusts himself off.

"What else can he do, the double?"

Aziraphale considers the other version of himself.

"Oh, pretty much anything I want him to - oh, OH." The angel is now wearing a rather appealing flush, and considering his doppelgänger with a completely different sort of expression.

Crowley hooks his fingers through the link of the handcuffs, and tugs the dripping angel closer.

"Right, upstairs the both of you, we have some kinks to work out."


	2. Putting The Work In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's hoping to find a way to kill time, but his brief cleaning spree is derailed by an unexpected find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'Housework' ( sex toys, masturbation, sexual fantasies, snake Crowley)

It's seven hours until he can pick Aziraphale up.

Crowley knows that's not a lot of time, all things considered, but the thought of spending it slumped in a chair doing nothing - even if it is an easy way to fill his sloth quota - rankles. It's not long enough for a good nap, and too long to go and buy Aziraphale something sweet and delicious, he'll just end up bored outside then.

He could - he could clean? That's a thing people do, isn't it? Tidy up their living space to reflect the fact that they have it totally together. 

Only Crowley doesn't own a hoover, or brushes, or disinfecting floor and/or wall cleaning liquids. The bath and shower clean themselves. Toilet brushes, he's pretty sure they're a thing. He's never used the toilet but there's probably some dust in there or something? Brushes, do you brush a carpet? He vaguely remembers something about shampoo and carpets, but that can't be right. He also remembers that people used to take their rugs up and beat them. Do people still do that? Do you have to clean _under_ the carpet? 

It occurs to him that he doesn't have any carpets, or rugs. So the whole point is fucking moot.

Still...it's something to do, so he pushes himself upright, and saunters his way through the flat, judging the surfaces for possible dirt content. How much is too much? Does it have to be visible, because Crowley's not that great at picking out small particles, especially if they're sort of grey-ish. Which raises the disturbing possibility that there's dirt all over his flat, and he's the only one who hasn't noticed. Satan, that's going to bother him now.

When he reaches the bedroom he stops, surveys his perfectly made bed.

Then he gets on his knees and looks under the bed.

"Huh."

Crowley reaches an arm into the space, until his fingers snag on a dark shape that had rolled all the way against the wall. He drags it out.

"Wondered where you'd got to," he grumbles.

It's a dildo, a weighty monster of a thing in black silicone, that he remembers the package had labelled 'Hercules.' It's been living under the bed for a while by the look of it, dust collected around the head like a little crown of fluff. He miracles it clean with a snap. Then miracles the rest of the floor for good measure.

Crowley remembers the last time he'd used it, kneeling at the head of the bed, the pillows flung out of the way and his face pressed hard to the wall. He'd had a hand fisted tight in his hair, arsehole stretched hot and stinging around the width of the thing. He'd been indulging in fantasy number 164 'Cherubim soldier captures wily demon and refuses to let him go until he's taken every pleasure he can from his body.' Yeah, that was a good one. He'd lost all feeling in his legs for an hour after that. He must have kicked it off the bed after, and it'd rolled underneath it. Crafty thing.

He'd forgotten how much he liked this one. He'd attached it to the floor in here a few times to indulge in fantasy number 56 'angel saves wretched demon from captivity and/or gruesome death and demon thanks him the only way he knows how. As many times as necessary until the angel is satisfied, and the poor demon is exhausted and aching, utterly wrung-out and sloppy with come' - Crowley's familiar with angelic stamina, so that's really a long weekend sort of fantasy.

Oh, and not to mention the time he put it on the wall and got down on his knees for fantasy number 12 'angel guarding gates of Eden indulges in forbidden, dirty blowjob from his hereditary enemy, under cover of darkness.' That one had a few variations, sometimes the angel was rough with him, pulling at his hair and calling him names, thumbs holding his mouth open so he drooled all over himself. Other times the angel just sighed out soft, surprised noises, called him sweet, and good, and pretty. It really depended on how much Crowley hated himself at the time. 

He'd even done fantasy number 284 with it, 'soldier that's come to kill Medusa seduces the creature instead.' That one had him pressed face-first to the wall, one leg drawn up and held to the cold plaster, other hand curled behind him, pushing the thing in slow and deep while Crowley hissed as much as he liked. That was a great one for getting fucked from behind, pretending that he couldn't look at Azira - at the nameless soldier, for fear that his penetrating stare would turn him to stone. He'd even made snake hair for it, for authenticity. That had been a fucking trip.

Honestly, this is starting to look like a great way to waste seven hours.

Crowley considers it for a minute, the floor is nice and clean now, it would be a shame not to take advantage of it, and he's feeling a little adventurous. He crouches down, attaches the dildo to the wall, roughly four and a half inches from the floor, then adjusts the angle a couple of times until he's satisfied. An extra miracle leaves the thing slick and glistening, before Crowley collapses into a pile of shining black coils. 

He circles a few times, stretches out the shape of himself, then rolls his red underbelly towards the wall. His cloacal scale lines up perfectly with the jutting length of silicone on the wall. 

"Jussst right."


	3. History Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale takes Crowley to the museum, and they come across some of Crowley's old holiday pictures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'drugs' (Crowley/Aziraphale, Crowley/Other, drug use, accidental drug use, sex while on drugs, snake anatomy, snake sex, egg laying)

Aziraphale takes the very rare opportunity to invite Crowley out for a change. There's a new exhibit at the museum, from the city of Teotihuacan, that he's been meaning to see. Aziraphale's knowledge of Mesoamerica is somewhat limited, but he knows Crowley spent some time over there. 

However the demon seems far less enthusiastic once they actually reach the exhibit, which is mostly made up of weaponry, stone carvings, and small statues. He's frowning behind his glasses as Aziraphale leads them deeper into the room.

"Er, when did you say this was from again?" Crowley's foot is tapping an irregular, nervous beat on the floor.

"Hmm, oh 100 BC - 600AD I believe," Aziraphale tells him, while admiring a small, exquisitely carved figure decorated with jade stones.

"Narrows it down," Crowley mutters.

He continues to fidget as they pass display cases that house a variety of bronze and gold artifacts. Aziraphale leans in to get a better look at an ancient stone carving, wonders if Crowley can read the pictographs. A particularly fascinating one appears to be - it appears to be a giant, winged serpent with six arms. Which looks oddly familiar. There's no colour on the stone, but Aziraphale suspects it may have originally been painted black and red. He turns to the demon - who's now clearly lurking beside him - and raises an eyebrow. Crowley heaves a sigh that sounds pained.

"Yes, I may have partied with the locals a few times," he admits, though he's wearing a tight, hunted sort of expression that tells Aziraphale there's more to the story. 

Crowley's sunglasses drift in the direction of the exit, which suggests that this is a period of his life he wasn't expecting to share today, or perhaps ever.

"Were you pretending to be someone in particular?" Aziraphale asks curiously.

Crowley shakes his head. "I don't think any of them had noticed the eyes, but then there was - ah - a celebration or something. The cup they handed me at the start of the night might not have been entirely alcohol. And I - er - got into the spirit of things."

Aziraphale considers the carved stone depiction of him, with its serpentine head, arching wings and six, clawed arms.

"Obviously it left me a bit confused about what bits went where," Crowley forces out, and Aziraphale can tell that his eyes are moving over the rest of the carved images, as if searching for something. "But they didn't seem to mind, they were more than happy to -" He cuts himself off, and there's a touch of redness to his ears. "I remember having a good time."

In the next panel the winged snake god seems to be demonstrating the art of autofellatio.

"Clearly," Aziraphale offers. 

Crowley spots it too. "Oh for fuck's sake, of course they immortalised it in stone for everyone to see." He throws up his hands. "And don't give me that expression, like you haven't accidentally taken drugs with new friends, and gotten roped into all manner of reckless stupidity."

Aziraphale has been slowly moving along the exhibit, and Crowley has been following him, now with a reluctant sort of inevitability. They've reached a larger stone carving under glass. It's a series of smaller pictographs and carved images, all of which seem to depict the winged serpent god in various complicated sexual positions with the locals. Sometimes two at the same time, given the unique arrangement of Crowley's serpent anatomy. However that is far from the most adventurous image. 

"This cheerful fellow seems to be elbow deep in your cloaca," Aziraphale points out.

Crowley whines in his throat, mouth opening and shutting as if he's going to attempt to deny it - but the carving is rather explicitly detailed, especially the curve of Crowley's tail, folding upwards in filthy ecstasy. He gives a slow, deflating hiss and shoves his hands into his pockets, his whole body gently vibrating.

"Ok, yes, we've done the humiliating holiday pictures portion of the day. How about we go see the Greeks now, you like the Greeks, they wrote stuff." One hand ejects itself from Crowley's pocket, waves in the direction of the doorway, as if to sweep Aziraphale from the room. 

Oh, he absolutely has to know what's on the last two carvings now. Crowley's face does something panicked and unhappy when Aziraphale straightens up and moves further along the display, but he doesn't try and stop him. He shuffles after him as though dragged against his will. A quiet hiss rolling in his throat.

Still, Aziraphale finds that he's not quite prepared for what's been carefully carved into the stone.

"You appear to be laying a sacred egg," he hears himself say.

"Fuck -" Crowley looks around, as if to make sure no one else is hearing their conversation. "Yesss, alright, fine, it was a very strange, very drug-fuelled orgy that went on for twelve days, and I may have ended up confused about how many limbs I was supposed to have at a time. And yes there may have been a bit too much explicit worshipping of the giant winged snake-god going on." 

Crowley glances up at the very last carving, which shows a carpet of very small snakes being ushered down a series of stone steps and into the jungle. 

"And, yes, roughly eighty percent of the snake species in Central and South America may be related to me, are you happy now?"


	4. Substitute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley discovers that Aziraphale needed a little bit of help admitting what he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'Behind The Couch' (pining, snake Crowley, emotional support snake, sex toys?)

The sofa is really not designed for two average-sized men to roll around on (or man-shaped beings at least.) Certainly not two men who are currently trying their best to occupy the same space at the same time. Aziraphale's big, warm hands are currently pushed up under Crowley's shirt, one solid thigh caught between both of his, mouth covering his own - and things are moving in a very satisfying direction indeed.

At least they are until Aziraphale pulls away, looking flushed and dishevelled and more beautiful than he has any right to.

"Perhaps we could - perhaps we could take a break for a bit?"

Crowley frowns. "Are you just saying that because you want to eat the cheesecake in the fridge?"

Aziraphale pouts, which is very damning. "It was supposed to be dessert."

"I thought I was dessert," Crowley grumbles. Which makes Aziraphale laugh and lean in, kiss the tip of his nose in a way he can't help but feel a bit patronised by. But he sighs and waves a hand towards the door. "Fine, fine, go get your cheesecake before it expires. I'll wait here."

"I shall bring you a piece too." Aziraphale kisses him again, before untangling his warmth and his softness from Crowley's disappointed body. Then he pulls himself upright and heads for the small kitchen.

Crowley flops backwards and mutters uncomplimentary things about the entire cheesecake family where Aziraphale can't hear him.

Both blankets have fallen off the sofa, and Crowley can't be bothered to retrieve them. His arm has slipped down behind the cushions, which have squeezed their way outwards enough to reveal a gap, and his hand touches something cold and hard in the space underneath. He turns his fingers, gets a grip on it, and gives a tug. The whole thing comes free in one slow pull, and he finds himself staring at -

\- at a rubber snake.

"What the fuck?"

It's four feet long, half-curled into a series of bendy loops, and patterned in red and black. It has big, yellow eyes that aren't quite straight, and a rubbery mouth that flops open and shut. It looks like the sort of thing you'd give to a friendly, excitable dog, or use to decorate for Halloween.

The head seems heavier than the rest, and it takes Crowley a moment to realise that it's because there's some sort of mechanism inside. He feels around until he can figure out how it's supposed to work, eventually grips both sides of the neck and presses in.

A red tongue slides out and flaps aggressively in Crowley's direction. While a low, tinny _'hissssss'_ sounds from a small speaker in its head. He resists the very strong urge to hiss back. 

Crowley stares at the thing.

His first thought is that it's a coincidence, some customer had made their way into the back room and sat down, dropped their...their toy down the back of the sofa and thought no more about it. But Aziraphale doesn't let people in here as a rule, and, to be honest, it feels a bit too on the nose for that to be true. His second thought - 

He waits until Aziraphale bustles in from the kitchen, humming a little tune.

“This.” Crowley holds the rubber snake up. “Does not look a thing like me.”

Aziraphale makes a startled noise in the doorway, and only a quick miracle saves the two pieces of cheesecake he's holding from ending up on the floor. He settles the plates down, none-too-gently, on a table that's only half full of books.

“Oh, I can – I can explain.”

Crowley waggles the snake in his direction, making it flop around ridiculously. Aziraphale's expression looks far too pained for the thing to be a random toy. The angel's already twisting his hands together in a guilty, apologetic sort of way.

“It was – it was just an experiment, that's all. A way to - to visualise you when you weren't here."

Which would be some strange and confusing mix of insulting and adorable if it wasn't for the bright flush in Aziraphale's cheeks. That suggests it's about a bit more than visualisation.

"Angel, have you been letting a rubber snake that isn't me watch you masturbate?" Crowley asks, in all seriousness.

Aziraphale frowns and twists his fingers together harder, until his knuckles go white. "It's not what you think, Crowley, it was more about the company."

"So you've been _talking_ to the rubber snake instead of me?" 

"Yes, but it was really only compliments," Aziraphale argues, as if that makes it better. "Observations on your form. Things that I know you wouldn't appreciate, or enjoy, and also to practice asking you for things that I wanted -" He stops, as if realising how that sounds, then sighs heavily. "I did sometimes have it very close while I...while I pleasured myself."

Crowley grips the neck, squeezes until there's a 'blep' of tongue, and a soft mechanical hiss.

Aziraphale winces. "Please don't do that?"

"Why not?" Crowley grumbles. "You clearly did."

"Oh, only at the end, when I needed a bit of comfort, a bit of reassurance that what I was doing wasn't -" Aziraphale's mouth crumples at the edges. "You're right, of course, I'm sorry. I was a terrible coward, using such a ridiculous substitute." He looks so horribly embarrassed and upset that Crowley can't make fun of him any more, let alone be cross with him.

He sighs and tosses the rubber snake onto a pile of books.

"Oh come here, you absolute fool."


	5. Unknown French Woodcut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley is rudely awoken for a peek at his possible future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'prophecies' (prophecies, naga crowley, snake anatomy)

"Crowley."

...

"Crowley, wake up."

Crowley is already mostly awake, the shaking is unnecessary. The shaking is not helping. Neither is the fluttery sensation of a miracle that subtly increases the brightness of his bedroom. Which ensures he's entirely awake, and very fucking grumpy about it.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley blinks - with some difficulty - it doesn't help. The angel is still a cloud of fluffy hair and beige tones on his bed, looking upsettingly out of place on the stylish midnight sheets. Crowley's fairly certain that the angel hadn't been there when he went to sleep. He would have noticed. "What are you doing here?" 

Aziraphale shuffles closer, and it's easy to see that he looks far more dishevelled than is usual for him. His shirt is half-untucked and clearly creased, cardigan buttoned-up wrong, tiny glasses crooked on his face. There's a worried sort of disarray to his whole aura.

"I found something, and it's very important that you see it."

"Wha-?" Crowley would protest further, something about not being close to awake enough if this is a world-ending emergency. But Aziraphale is already settling an unreasonably large book in his lap, nearly crushing his balls in the process, the hard corner jabbing into his very sensitive inner thigh. "What am I -" He forces himself to be something like a properly functioning demon. If Aziraphale is fretting then it's probably important. It's probably something he needs to concentrate on. He stares at the page, which is a mess of Latin and medieval French, neither of which he's in any state to parse right now. "Alright, what am I looking at?"

"It's a series of prophecies concerning the protection of man from otherworldly entities."

"So...us?" Crowley scrubs at his hair. "M'fine, I'm not bothering anyone."

"Please concentrate," Aziraphale says, and he looks so earnest that Crowley sighs and drags the book closer.

"Right, protection of man, otherworldly entities, got it."

"This one -" Aziraphale points at a short passage. "Explains an event that will be forthcoming. A combination of creative and destructive energies that will result in - well it's rather difficult to translate exactly, some sort of immunity from all harm. Though it will also prevent harm befalling all those who _'reside within their sight_.'" 

Ugh, prophecies never make any sense. Crowley knows one of them saved both their lives, but he still hates them.

"Right, but I thought it was all bullshit, thought Agnes Nutter was the only one with the, y'know, the real deal."

Aziraphale nods, hands twisting in his lap. "I had thought the same, but then a few days ago there was a woodcut found in a church in Northern France, and it seems to have been originally intended for this book. This page specifically. Rubbings were made and then printed by the team who found it. I managed to get hold of a copy." He stops, as if he'd run out of breath, a nervous sort of tension to him. "Crowley, turn the page."

Crowley does, and finds a photocopied piece of paper.

It's clearly the print from a woodcut, and it depicts the form of an angel, all gentle curves and strong arms, pale shock of hair lit by the glow of a halo. His head is tipped back on a gasp, familiar wings stretched out above him, in what looks a lot like religious ecstasy. Though it's not being caused by anything divine. There's a demon wrapped around him, the vast shape of it undoubtedly serpentine. Its dark, scaled coils are curled tightly around the angel's plump middle, solid chest and spread legs. Though only the lower half is a snake, the upper body is slender and human, with a long neck and an angular face, curtain of hair doing nothing to obscure what are obviously rounded circles of glass at his eyes. The demon's sharp claws are dug into the angel's soft flesh, teeth pressed to his throat as if to tear into it. But the picture isn't showing an act of violence, the theme isn't 'demonic force overwhelms angelic.' No, it's clearly meant to have captured them in the middle of an intimate moment. The angel's hands are fisted in the demon's hair, and his legs have been raised and spread for the bulk of the demon's mid-section. The woodcut is even detailed enough to show the act of penetration, where the angel's plump cock and heavy balls have been lifted so two tapering cocks can stuff themselves in beneath.

Crowley stares. Moving the book out of his lap has become suddenly impossible if he wants to retain his dignity.

"Ok, so this is clearly us," he rasps.

Aziraphale nods, rather frantically.

"And at some point we're going to -" Crowley jerks his head in the direction of the picture.

Another nod, a wild flush has appeared on the angel's face. 

Crowley finds himself looking at the picture again. Where Aziraphale was clearly enjoying a few of his more demonic aspects, some of which he's been hiding for millennia. 

No, he _will enjoy them_ , some time in the future - it hasn't happened yet.

Fuck, he loves prophecies.


	6. I Found You Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale make choices about how their own side will protect itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'you shall have no other gods before me' (eldritch horror, love )

"Did we do the right thing, do you think?" Aziraphale asks. The question is very soft, and it doesn't really matter now, it's a decision made. 

Crowley bends down, lays a 'we'll see, we'll see,' against the angel's bare chest. He leaves it in the soft places where he digs his teeth, in the pale hair, and over the rise of a nipple which is pressed up into his mouth with a gasp when he licks across it. But he regrets nothing, because they can have this now, without fear, without restraint, without the threat of punishment. They can make something together for a million years and no one can touch them.

Aziraphale must think so too because he spreads his thighs and pulls him in, reaches down to nudge Crowley into place, so he can push all the way inside. It's exquisite, it's unbearable, an ache finally eased out. Crowley moves in him, moves with him, he feels Aziraphale's strong legs wrap around him and squeeze, in a way that makes his snake half hiss in adoration. They fit together so well, like they were made to, as if this was something they'd always known how to do, edges blurring together until they're only barely inside their corporations. Pieces of themselves that rarely see the light tangling together in sparks of ringing bliss.

They've been doing this rather a lot since the Ritz. 

Aziraphale smiles more now.

So does Crowley.

They make it back downstairs eventually, Aziraphale in his most endearing cardigan and Crowley trying to look as if he doesn't appreciate said cardigan. Though he supposes it doesn't matter now. He could appreciate anything about him. He could press his hands into that soft wool, lean in close, kiss Aziraphale gently and tell him that he looked _nice._

Hell is waiting for them in the doorway of the bookshop, in the form of Hastur and a few of his more threatening minions. Not Dukes of Hell, but enough muscle to get the job done. They skulk inside, and let the door swing shut behind them.

Crowley tenses instinctively. Though he can't bring himself to be surprised.

"Oh, we have guests," Aziraphale says, in the tone of voice that makes 'guests' sound an awful lot like 'garbage.' Certainly not a tone of voice that's offering anyone tea.

"I see that." Crowley moves in beside him, because that's what he does.

"We've come to drag you back downstairs, Crawly." Hastur looks delighted at the prospect. "We have unfinished business."

Crowley can't help the hiss, because he'd known, of course he'd known. Aziraphale had hoped, but Hell was like a dog with a fucking bone.

"No," he says. "I don't think I'm going anywhere with you." He looks between the grimy, brutish faces of the others. Every one of them came here to do violence, that's clear enough. "Think I'll pass."

"You don't get to _pass_." Hastur is spitting fury now. "Hell has more than holy water. We know how to hurt people, and we've decided to spend a few centuries taking you apart piece by piece. Let's see if you're immune to that."

"Oh I'm afraid that's not going to happen," Aziraphale says firmly.

Hastur turns his filthy eyes on the angel, and Crowley wants to claw them out for it.

"Don't think we're not prepared to put down an angel, don't think we won't enjoy it." There's a sneer, as if he'd jump at the chance to be the one to put hands on him.

"Boss -" One of the minions behind Hastur is looking back through the door, fingers paling on the glass. "Boss, you need to see this. The world's gone."

Hastur frowns and turns around.

"What!? What do you mean _the world's gone_ , don't be so stupid, what fucking nonsense -" He turns completely, shoves the demon out of the way and yanks the bookshop door open, the bell jangling chaotically above him.

Crowley and Aziraphale watch Hastur and his four minions stare in horror past the threshold, at the endless expanse of writhing, sickly green light, at the squirming shapes of tentacles and hooks and vast, lidless eyes in the distant sky. 

"They liked the chaos of our story," Crowley offers. "They _love_ a bit of chaos they do, and the two of us together, well, that's about as chaotic as it gets." 

"They didn't ask for much in exchange for their protection," Aziraphale adds. "This is just one small universe after all, just one speck in their ocean."

Crowley nods agreement. "They just wanted us to pass on a few of mankind's nightmares, sing them a bit of music. They quite like The Cranberries for some odd reason."

A moon-sized eye swivels in the sky, the floating black hole of a pupil suddenly fixed in their direction.

Hastur makes a noise that suggests he'd rather like to be a pile of senseless maggots right now.

"Good luck finding your way home," Aziraphale says cheerfully.


	7. Change Of Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there's a change of plans concerning the future of the Antichrist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'The Antichrist' (babies, baby Antichrist, co-parenting)

This is, all things considered, a bit of a cock-up. Crowley will admit, to himself at least, that some of it might be his fault. But in his defence, circumstances spun out of his control a bit. Or a lot.

He'd really like to bang on the bookshop door, since he's on what feels like his last nerve. But he's just woken up The Great Dragon from a nap, and he doesn't want to make any loud noises. He settles for quietly vexed knocking instead.

Aziraphale opens the door to him with a confused frown, all snugly wrapped in his cardigan and settled in for a night reading a book and not drinking with Crowley - as they'd originally planned.

"Crowley, what are you -" His eyes slip over to the sleepy lump pressed to Crowley's shoulder. 

"Can we get inside, only it's cold out," Crowley says hurriedly, before the angel can protest. He'd really rather have this conversation in the bookshop.

Aziraphale swings the door wide to admit them both, and Crowley throws a brief look behind him, and back down the street, before slinking inside and pushing the door shut behind him.

"You have a baby," Aziraphale says, though there are a whole host of questions in that statement.

"I have _the_ baby," Crowley corrects.

Crowley is not in the best of moods. The Antichrist had had a moment in the car, even though Crowley had miracled him a car seat (sacrilege at its best) and given him a squashy rubber dinosaur (probably heresy) to furiously gnaw on. Far from being pleased with these gifts, The Spawn of Satan decided to fling the dinosaur into the back of Crowley's seat instead, and then alternated between sad, frustrated wails and garbled noises of misery around his own fists. He'd only stopped when Crowley cursed himself for an idiot and used a quick thread of infernal power to drop the temperature of the dinosaur toy fifteen degrees. 

The Antichrist had spent a while with the thing shoved hard against his little red gums, and then the last ten miles fast asleep.

"No," Aziraphale says, in one long breath. "I thought you - it was supposed to - you put him -"

Crowley cuts him off. "Yes, yes, I know all of that. He was bloody DNA tested, apparently he had the wrong sort of ears." Because of course he did. "The other one had the wrong blood type, and with no records for this one." Crowley sighs and absently rubs the gentle curve of The Adversary's tiny spine, hissing a breath. "Honestly, if they'd warned me in advance I could have sorted it all out. I thought it was all, y'know, prearranged. Fucking idiots."

"Crowley." Aziraphale shoots a meaningful look at the baby.

Crowley gives an annoyed grumble.

"He's four months old, and also the Antichrist. I think he'll be hearing worse than that."

Aziraphale pouts, the bastard.

"You said there was a swap, how do you know this is the right one?"

"When they went to test his blood, the test tube exploded," Crowley says flatly. "Trust me, he's the right one."

"Oh." Aziraphale tucks his hands together and regards the sleepy baby. The Destroyer of Kings is rhythmically clenching his fists in Crowley's shirt, while drooling slowly into his neck, his mouth moving noisily against the skin like he's testing if Crowley is edible

"Yeah, oh, and now they've seen the mess that can happen within just a few months, Hell's decided it's too big of a risk. I'm supposed to _take care of it_ for them. I'm supposed to teach him his duties, make all attempts to give him a normal childhood until the time comes."

"They want you to raise him?" Aziraphale looks horrified.

"It wasn't my idea," Crowley says desperately, because he can't tell if that's horrified sympathy or some sort of judgment as to his fitness. "I'm the only one that knows how anything works, I'm the only one that's spent any time up here. _Obviously_ it's a terrible idea, which is why you're going to help me."

Aziraphale's mouth drops open. "What?! No, no I couldn't possibly."

"You're all I've got," Crowley says tightly. Aziraphale blinks, shocked by the words, which Crowley sort of regrets and sort of doesn't. This feels like a situation where he lays it all on the table. "You always have been."

Aziraphale makes a soft noise, like he's been punched.

"Someone's going to notice if we're raising the Antichrist together," he says quietly, like Crowley's an idiot.

Crowley shakes his head, though that is a very good point. He adjusts the small body of The Lord of Darkness, so that his tiny head bonks gently into his neck.

"Well what else am I going to do? Snatch some human off the street, 'oi, you, we're co-parenting, get your stuff and get in the car.'"

Aziraphale winces, as if he doesn't like that idea any better than Crowley does.

"Crowley we can't just...just set up together and raise a child. It's ludicrous."

Crowley is trying to treat this all with the seriousness that it deserves, but that's very hard when The Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds, is smearing his little hand on one lens of his glasses, and making quiet ' _bubbubbub_ ' noises that probably have no occult significance. Crowley doesn't expect tiny fingers to close on the bridge and awkwardly drag them from his face. He's foiled because both of his own hands are currently holding the Prince Of Hell.

There's a flail of excitement and something that can only be considered a shriek as the glasses are flopped about. 

"No, Antichrist, give them back."

The Antichrist refuses to listen and opens his mouth, slowly leaning forward while bringing his chubby fist in close, trying to unite the two. Crowley attempts to retrieve his glasses, only to be defeated by a grip that the Dukes of Hell would find difficult to break.

"You can't have them, you'll poke yourself in the eye and I don't know if bits of you grow back yet."

The Antichrist makes a complaining noise, until Aziraphale conjures a coloured rattle - shakes it gently in his direction. The baby immediately releases his grip and stretches a hand clumsily towards the new fascination. Aziraphale lets him claim it as his own and wet it thoroughly with his mouth, though the angel can't seem to resist leaning in and stroking his ridiculously fluffy baby hair, while Crowley gives his dribble-covered glasses a disgusted look.

"What's his name?" Aziraphale asks. "I refuse to call him 'Antichrist.'"

Crowley smiles. "Oh, that one you are going to like."


	8. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the origin of one of Crowley's oldest habits is finally revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt: 'Clothes and clothing mishaps' (silliness, snake Crowley, flirting, fruit)

Aziraphale had worried at the start that someone was going to see, or that someone would know, that of course he'd get into trouble somehow for spending so much time with Crawly.

He'd stayed away for a while, tried to busy himself with Good Works, much to the demon's obvious disappointment. It was clear he sought out Aziraphale's company, and what a tempting adversary he was. 

Aziraphale had resisted, truly he had. But it all got away from him a bit when the fiendish demon had sat down next to him and cheerfully offered him some peach slices. As if that had been a wholly innocent proposition and not something _utterly scandalous_. Still he'd found himself incapable of refusing. Aziraphale had fallen for his clever wiles, knocking peaches every which way when he'd moved in to kiss him. The demon's feigned surprise had been very convincing. But he'd kissed Aziraphale back enthusiastically, if a little clumsily.

The kissing is very nice. It's become something of a habit, he'll admit, but Aziraphale tells himself it's a way to keep the demon's mischief focused on him rather than innocent humans.

Crawly has been bringing him fruit ever since, always affecting a blushing, inexperienced sort of eagerness that Aziraphale is wise to, but still can't help but find impossibly appealing. The demon is a challenging foe indeed.

Crawly's hands are always warm, and his mouth is always so lovely and responsive under Aziraphale's. They're currently in the middle of nowhere, under the inviting shade of a fig tree, its fruit scattered around them. Aziraphale finds himself, in a moment of bravery, grabbing Crawly's hand and pulling it up underneath his robes, to spread hot and intimate on his thigh. Crawly stops kissing him, a strangled noise knocking around his throat. The hand on Aziraphale's thigh doesn't move, but it's a careful stillness, the sort of stillness someone might affect if they noticed that their hand was suddenly in a crocodile's mouth.

"I've been watching them," Aziraphale says, with an awkward but determined firmness. "When they take their clothes off and - and join together. I think it would be nice. I think I'd like to try it."

Crawly's still staring at him.

"Hrngh," he says eloquently.

"Oh." It occurs to Aziraphale that perhaps Crawly had just liked the kissing, that he had no interest in all the other parts. The vigorous motion, and the gasping, and the messy wetness left between his thighs. Or possibly Aziraphale's thighs, he supposed that's something you sort out at some point beforehand. He'd like to try something in the way of an intimate, fleshy joining though, it had always looked so appealing. "If you don't want to -"

"NO!" Crawly says, rather loudly, and the hand on Aziraphale's thigh grips briefly tight. Which is a terribly interesting sensation. "I mean, I do, I do want to, with you, surprised you do though. What with -" There's a pointed jerk of head upwards.

Aziraphale isn't going to think about that right now. "No time like the present, clothes off!"

Crawly gives a long, slow blink. "Off?"

"Yes, take your clothes off."

Crawly looks down at his robe, the long fingers of his other hand picking at the fabric.

"I, umm, I've never -" He looks up, mouth scrunching in confusion. "They just sort of - they just appear on me," he admits.

"Oh, well it's easy enough," Aziraphale tells him. "Just slither out of them."

Crawly's eyebrows fly upward. " _Slither_ \- oh, right." His clothes abruptly collapse into a heap as he disappears entirely, and Aziraphale gives a surprised yelp.

The fabric of the robe, now bunched on the ground, jiggles a little, and then a little more. Then it drags itself along in the dirt, before coming to an abrupt stop. There's a frantic hissing from inside.

"Aziraphale, _Aziraphale!_ " Crawly's muffled voice sounds confused and panicked.

Aziraphale bends down and carefully unfolds the robe.

Crawly has somehow managed to double himself up inside one of the sleeves, which is straining to contain the squirming mass of snake he's become. He flops back and forth on the ground, like an impossibly long loaf of bread inside a cloth bag.

After a moment of desperate thrashing his head pokes out of the end, only to immediately turn himself upside down when the material proves too tight to escape any further. There's a wriggle that accomplishes nothing but embarrassment, and a flop of the other sleeve, where Aziraphale suspects the end of his tail resides. Crawly's mouth opens, tongue sliding in the dirt. He hisses in frustrated humiliation.

"Angel, I'm stuck, help me."

Aziraphale will not laugh. He's an angel of the Lord and it would be undignified, not to mention terribly mean to Crawly, who really has gotten himself into quite a lot of difficulty -

Crawly hisses in wounded affront. "Aziraphale, stop laughing and help me!"

Aziraphale, still laughing, bends down and tears the sleeve open. Crawly spills out of it half tangled up, immediately slips back into human form, completely naked, all long limbs, bare skin and freckles. He's breathing hard, hair tousled, face flushed beet-red.

Aziraphale gathers him in and pats his hair into some sort of order. Though the demon is clearly still disgruntled by his breathless amusement, he lets himself be kissed.

"That does it," Crawly decides. "I'm miracling all my clothes forever!"


	9. The Masterwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley has to spend long stretches of time away from the angel. But he finds ways to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'What They Do When They're Apart' (love, pining)

The first sketch is...difficult.

Crowley is a man who already has a picture of what he wants inside his own head. He desires an artist to simply recreate it.

"No, the hair is more - more -" There's a frustrated wave of one long hand over the top of his head. "It's like clouds, if clouds were curly, more soft, more personality to it."

Caravaggio obediently adds more curve and body to the hair. Gives it a sense of depth.

"Better," Crowley says grudgingly. He is not, Caravaggio has learned, a man who gives compliments easily. "Can you make it happy? That hair looks far too serious. It needs to be happy, I need to feel like the hair is happy to see me."

Caravaggio reminds himself, again, that the man is paying him a considerable sum of money. Enough to fund his artwork for half a year. He can make as many insane demands as he likes.

"More lift?" he suggests. "As if he's in some unseen breeze?"

Crowley nods, lifts a finger to point straight at him.

"Yes, that, it looks exactly as if he's been caught in some not entirely earthly - possibly ethereal - breeze. But don't make it move, it doesn't move it's just happy all the time. There's a sense of contentment to the hair, a warmth."

Caravaggio makes the hair as happy as he can.

Crowley balances his sharp jaw on his hand and watches him sketch for a moment longer

"The face needs to be softer," he says quietly. "Everything needs to be softer, it needs to be welcoming, and a little teasing. He needs to feel like a safe place - but he needs to be strong underneath. Not heavy but durable, formidable where no one can see. "

Ah, Caravaggio realises, it's like that then.

-

"The nose is - it's a bit bigger and it's more up at the end, just a little. But in an appealing sort of way."

Caravaggio moves the charcoal away from the canvas he has pinned, gestures towards the nose he's drawn.

"A small, subtle shift of direction here?" He moves the tip of his smallest finger to indicate a slight rise.

"Yes, that's it exactly, but very subtle. From some angles it's almost unnoticeable, and others it's just a gentle sort of suggestion of pertness, and sometimes when he looks at you and smiles it's all you can see." Crowley has leant so far into the painting that Caravaggio is in danger of tipping from his stool. "He's different from every angle, every way you look at him it's like you see something new. No matter how long -"

Crowley clears his throat and pulls back.

"And don't give him a moody, constipated expression, see them in all your bloody paintings lately. I need him to be happy, and maybe a little restrained. He's clever, he's so clever, so perhaps a touch of vast and unknowable knowledge about the eyes. As if he's seen things you could never understand."

Caravaggio isn't entirely certain how he'll manage that, but he's an artist, he has imagination. He will do his best.

"And the chin needs to look more pleased, with just a hint of barely concealed amusement. As if he wants to laugh, wants to be fond, but he's not allowed." Crowley's expression is briefly agonised, before it flattens out again into perfect blankness.

-

"The hair's not the right colour."

Caravaggio moves his palette aside. "In what way?"

"It's paler, it's not blond, it's more white."

"More white, as if on the elderly?"

Crowley stares at him through tiny, tinted lenses. "No, he's not elderly," he says, clearly annoyed. "Well not in the way you'd understand." There's a long sigh. "It's white but not stark, it's not an absence of colour, it's more like the white was always supposed to be there. It's warm, it doesn't judge you. It stands out in a crowd, it draws you in -" He stops and stares at the half-finished painting with an expression that looks a lot like surprise. "Or maybe that's just me."

-

"If you have a request for the clothes he should be wearing."

"White," Crowley says immediately, and Caravaggio finds that he is not surprised at all. "Put him in something white, no accents other than cream, blue, or yellow, something comfortable, he likes to be comfortable. A few years out of date maybe. He hates change and he rarely meets it head on."

-

Crowley has been silently inspecting the painting for a very long time.

"If there's anything you need me to change." Caravaggio often has patrons and clients who demand corrections and additions. "I can -"

"No." Crowley shakes himself, as if from a dream, wrapping the painting carefully in cloth and quickly tying it closed.

He offers no comment on the painting at all.

He pays three times what they agreed, and then he leaves.

_412 Years Later...._

"Where did you say you put it?" Aziraphale hadn't expected so much to sort through. 

Crowley's storage room is a disaster, things are piled haphazardly on top of other things with seemingly no sense of order, as if he'd simply wanted to stash them away. Aziraphale couldn't begin to guess why he'd even kept half of them.

"In a chest." Crowley calls back from the other room. "Definitely in a chest."

Aziraphale sighs. There are many varieties of chest in here, depending on the time period Crowley's talking about. He'd simply have to search them all. Honestly, the last time he'd gone to this much trouble to find a bottle of wine it turned out that they'd drunk the damn thing a hundred and sixty years before. But they're eating together in Crowley's flat for the first time, like friends do, and he refuses to give any indication that he's annoyed. No matter how infuriatingly unhelpful the demon can be sometimes.

He moves aside a nest of tables and a parasol stand to get further inside.

There's a dust sheet on the far wall - though such a thing would certainly never dare to collect dust in Crowley's home - and Aziraphale can't quite resist the urge to peek under it.

There's something ever so slightly shocking, about coming face to face with your own likeness.

The dust sheet pulls away easily under the fall of his arm, gathering in folds on the floor beside him and exposing the whole painting. It's a Caravaggio, though Aziraphale has never seen it before, he certainly would have remembered posing for the man. But it is undoubtedly him, though this painted version of him seems far more...amused than Aziraphale has ever seen himself. He's seated in a studio, wearing what looks to be the fashion of the time though they did all run together somewhat and he rarely paid attention. He looks soft, playful almost, as if the painter was a good friend he'd chosen to humour. His eyes are the most real, surprisingly so, there's an unnatural sort of depth to the light in them, as if there are a thousand things he can't say. Aziraphale has often seen that expression on his face, but to be confronted with it here.

Why does Crowley have a painting of him?

Aziraphale never met Caravaggio, how could he possibly have painted him so accurately? How could he have rendered him so closely, as if he'd sat for him himself? There's only one person in the world who knows him so well -

"Hey, I found it, it was -" Crowley stops in the doorway, bottle of wine dropping from his fingers to clank against the floor and roll away. They're so much sturdier than you expect, wine bottles.

Aziraphale turns to look at him, and is distressed to watch Crowley's whole face fall, as if bearing some great devastation.

"I can explain," he says hurriedly. "It's not - I haven't -"

"Crowley." Aziraphale very carefully slips his pocket watch from his pocket. It's worked every day for the last one hundred and sixty-eight years, though he's never wound it, and it lacks any sort of mechanism inside. He hands it to Crowley. "Open this please."

"Aziraphale -"

"Just open it first," Aziraphale pleads quietly.

Crowley takes it from him, the weight of it still warm from his body. His long fingers press the button so the front pops open, exposing the clock face. He looks at Aziraphale questioningly.

"All the way." Aziraphale lets his hands fall together, twisting nervously.

Crowley looks down, presses a thumb to the edge and lifts - there's a hollow space behind it, where the workings of a clock would normally go. The demon takes a quick, startled breath, and Aziraphale can almost feel the way it shakes out again. With careful fingers Crowley touches what's inside, lifts it out, uncurls the long, thin braid of flame-coloured hair.

_"Aziraphale."_

"We both had our secrets," Aziraphale admits. "Some older than others."

Crowley makes a noise, something soft and wounded that he tries desperately to stifle. Aziraphale meets him in the middle of the room, braves a clasp of hands, a touch to the angular curve of that beloved face.

"I never could have done you justice," Aziraphale tells him, and it feels like a confession. "I never could have described the way you make me feel, even though I see your face every time I -"

Crowley kisses him.


	10. Table Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale and Crowley have a different sort of restaurant outing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'roleplay gone wrong' (roleplay, sexual roleplay, explicit sexual content, rimming, exhibitionism, sex in public)

Crowley watches Aziraphale pat at his mouth with the napkin, which they'd both agreed upon as the signal, before he snaps his fingers. Then he retrieves a shiny silver tray from a side table and slinks towards him.

"Did you enjoy your dessert, sir?" He leans down to collect the small dessert plates.

Aziraphale offers a smile. "It was delicious, though I do find that I'm not entirely satisfied yet."

"Can I get you something else then?" Crowley offers politely, much to Aziraphale's obvious delight. "A slice of the toffee and walnut gateaux perhaps?"

"Oh no, I was thinking something a little more in the way of -" Aziraphale's hand lifts, finds a resting place where Crowley's trousers are stretched tight over the curve of his arse. The angel gives a gentle, questioning squeeze "Personal service."

Crowley lets the plates rattle in his grip. "Sir, someone's going to see."

"Oh, no one's paying attention right now." Aziraphale gestures to the frozen restaurant around them. It's true, no one's paying attention, because they're all stuck in two minutes ago. "I've made sure of it."

Crowley makes a show of looking around at the other diners and feigning confusion.

"What did you do to them?"

Aziraphale curls a hand around his wrist and pulls him in, fingers gently pushing up the white jacket and band to get to the catch and zip of his trousers.

"Oh, just a little bit of magic. That is my trade after all." He waves a hand in a way that looks, quite frankly, ridiculous. But no more ridiculous than the moustache he'd made Crowley carefully draw on. He'd flatly refused to grow one for the afternoon. Spoilsport. "You're more than worth it, you lovely thing. Don't pretend you haven't been flirting with me all evening."

Crowley forces his mouth to look reluctant, or possibly embarrassed, they hadn't really done much work on motivation for the scene.

"Sir, we could go somewhere else. I could be fired for fraternising with patrons." His voice comes out more surprised than serious, since the angel has already pushed his trousers down enough to free his cock, which isn't entirely hard yet, but is definitely on the way there. "We're in the middle of the - of the -"

Aziraphale ignores his protests and pushes him into the edge of the table, leaning in to lick delicately around the head of his cock, and Crowley finds the expensive tablecloth is now fisted in his grip.

"Ah - Mr. Fell, we can't, everyone can see -"

The lick becomes a slow suck. Then Aziraphale's beautiful, tempting mouth takes him all the way in, lets him nudge teasingly into the tight flex of his throat - before sliding back off him completely, leaving Crowley's dick flushed and wet, and straining for attention. The angel pauses to admire the entire length of his body, where it's stretched awkwardly against the table, clothes dragged indecently open.

"Let them look, you're a beautiful thing, I could keep you like this for hours." Aziraphale slides a hand down inside Crowley's underwear to cup his balls, before carefully drawing them out to settle against the crotch of his trousers. "Just like this."

"Nnnn, don't." Crowley tries to spread his legs - is stopped by tight fabric.

Aziraphale thumbs open the white waiter's jacket, encouraging him to lean back a little for height and then he bends in again, opens his mouth and takes his cock all the way inside. He switches between long, deep bobs and quick sucks at the head, tongue curling and nudging at the sensitive spot beneath it. The contents of the table rattle as Crowley braces himself against it.

"Oh shit." He hadn't expecting so much fucking enthusiasm, the angel is going to finish this before it starts if he's not careful.

Even as he thinks it, Aziraphale pulls back, starts tugging down his tight, high-waisted trousers, hard enough that Crowley feels the sting of it in his thighs. When they reach his knees they drop and the angel stands and abruptly hoists him onto the table in a crash of crockery. Crowley's bare buttock goes right into an abandoned slice of cake. The cold frosting a shock against the skin.

Aziraphale wastes no time lifting his legs and spreading them wide, then abruptly transferring his oral attentions to the tight clench of his arsehole.

Crowley's hand flails for something to hold on to, manages to grip the edge of the table before Aziraphale shoves his tongue straight inside him with all the greedy impatience of a starving man.

"Oh fucking staaaaaaa." Crowley's leg kicks the back of a chair, knocking it flying, then decides to just hold his legs in mid-air while the angel licks and bites and moans into the desperate flutter of his hole. "Oh nnnrgh, bastard." Strong thumbs dig into his buttocks, spread him open to better take him apart. There's nothing coming out of Crowley's mouth but surprised and encouraging consonants.

He's trembling and dripping and obscenely ready when Aziraphale finally pulls open his stupid magician trousers to expose the jutting thickness of his cock. Then he's pinning one of Crowley's thighs to the table and pushing inside him.

"Oh, holy fuck," Crowley chokes out, as the angel sinks deep, stretching him out in one long, blissful ache. "Nrrrgh, fuck, just like that." 

The plates and cutlery shake and clatter noisily as Aziraphale fucks him. The silver tray crashes over the edge and rolls away. Crowley's making high, embarrassing noises in the back of his throat and he doesn't even care. Every sliding, punching thrust is grazing his prostate and it's amazing.

Aziraphale gasps his name and leans in. "Next time, I'm going to have you on stage, in the middle of my act, while three hundred people sit frozen in their seats -"

Crowley's brain whites out, and he clenches down tight on the angel's cock in delicious ecstasy. He can feel the messy bursts of come across his untucked shirt, shoved up trouser-band and bare stomach. He's vaguely aware of the angel giving a surprised moan and grinding to a messy, trembling stop himself, leaving his own pleasure spilling hot inside Crowley's sore arse.

He feels completely and utterly wrecked among the fancy tableware, it genuinely doesn't get any better than this -

There's the abrupt sound of someone dropping a glass. Then the sound of fifty people reacting loudly in shock and confusion.

Crowley quickly snaps his fingers.

"Briefly lost concentration there," he admits breathlessly. "We'll fix it later."

"We'll fix it later," Aziraphale agrees, and kisses him.


	11. The Definition of Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale aren't always just observers, sometimes history comes to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'crossover/fusion' (crossover, historical, humour)

_1200 B.C. Ancient Greece_

"And so I told Heroditus that I didn't know when his scrolls were moved -"

Crowley pulls a face around his cup of wine and fixes the angel with a very pointed look. "You mean you lied."

Aziraphale turns a shocked expression on him. "I most certainly did not, I did not _lie_ , I genuinely couldn't tell him the exact moment that I moved them. It was before lunch but that's really all I remember."

"That's semantics, you're using semantics to steal scrolls from scholars. Aziraphale." Crowley's smile stretches. "That's almost wily of you."

"How dare you," Aziraphale protests. But he's clearly fighting a smile too, those are definitely the pink cheeks of a guilty angel.

Crowley's about to say something unwise about how Aziraphale always enjoys getting one over on people who think they know better than him - when several people run past screaming. They have their tunics and robes held up in messy bunches as they go, so they don't trip over them in their haste, sandals slapping harshly on the stone. They're soon followed by a much larger crowd of people, all of them yelling.

"What the Hell is going on?" Crowley sets his wine down and tries to get a look at the upper tiers of the city.

"Was that a harpy?" Aziraphale says absently next to him, frowning up at the suddenly stormy clouds. "I thought they mostly stayed in the Southern Islands."

Crowley looks up too, but all that's left of whatever Aziraphale was watching is an explosion of black feathers and a fine spray of blood. Though he does hear the faint, receding rattle of metal against metal. He leans into the street and quickly snaps his fingers. A young woman stops running, weaves out of the crowd and comes to them.

"You, human woman, what's happening, what's going on?" Crowley demands.

"A god has been slain," the woman says dully. "His fury knows no end. We must leave the city before we are all next."

"Whose fury?" Aziraphale wonders - and Crowley has to tug him out of the way of a cart that comes crashing down the street, throwing fruit everywhere. By the time they both straighten themselves out half the crowd and the woman are gone

"It's probably another bloody hero, there's always one of those popping up to slay physical manifestations of gods. You know what they're like. It'll blow over in a bit probably. Then all that loose energy will get recycled into another divinity."

There's a sudden gentle but pointed rain from above.

"It's raining blood," Aziraphale complains.

"You've no leg to stand on there," Crowley reminds him, but lifts a wing and arcs it over Aziraphale's head regardless.

~

_920 B.C. Denmark_

"I mean, how was I supposed to know? The ground has never been literally made of snow before. How was I supposed to know it could give way? How could I possibly have known that the whole thing would just -" Crowley makes a dramatic waving motion with his arms, to suggest something falling from a great height.

Aziraphale pokes at their 'thematically appropriate campfire,' which he'd insisted that they have to allay suspicion when he'd noticed Crowley shivering. Which - fine, it was very fucking cold and he wasn't going to mention it.

"But I can't imagine that a whole mountain could be made of snow, that doesn't seem right." Aziraphale frowns. "It's much too puffy, you'd just sink into it."

"No, the whole mountain is made of ice, the snow gets crushed until it turns into water and the water freezes, and then you have a whole fucking mountain of ice -"

Someone clears their throat, loudly. Aziraphale and Crowley turn, surprised. Because they're in the middle of nowhere, the woods around them are pitch black and the temperature is well below zero - visitors are the last thing they expect. Especially ones that can sneak up on either of them.

There's a tall, serious-looking bald man across their campfire. He has a thousand-light-year stare and he reeks of death and violence. He has an axe on his back and his naked upper body is quietly steaming in the cold night air.

"A boy," he says simply.

"I'm terribly sorry, " Aziraphale says apologetically, as if the man is a guest he'd been caught unprepared for. "We didn't hear you approach, can we help in some way?"

"Aziraphale, stop being nice to menacing strangers," Crowley says stiffly, because he knows a man who's not to be trusted when he sees one. Oh he thinks this man would probably tell him the truth. He'd also almost certainly swing for the neck.

"I'm looking for a boy," the man forces out, as if every syllable is too much. As if talking is a skill he finds vexing and unnecessary but has reluctantly decided to use.

"A boy?" Aziraphale frowns, then snaps his fingers. "Oh, yes, a feisty thing with scar on his cheek." He points enthusiastically towards the path that leads uphill and into the woods. "He was yelling at a bear, something about defeating its father in battle."

The stranger grunts, turns without a word of thanks, and stomps off in the direction he's pointed.

"Very taciturn fellow," Aziraphale decides.

Crowley gives a 'hmm' and waves the campfire flames a little higher.


	12. Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a morning after, and Crowley has a surprise for Aziraphale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'anniversary/birthday' (humour, snake Crowley, sex with snake Crowley, eggs)

Aziraphale busies himself with breakfast while Crowley sleeps off the unexpectedly eventful birthday party they'd thrown for the bookshop. It had been a year since Adam put it back together and Aziraphale thought it rather deserved a celebration.

They'd gotten a little exuberant and adventurous, dared to cross a few inter-species boundaries. Aziraphale stirs his tea with a little more vigour than usual, and he finds that he can't make himself stop smiling. The whole night had been quite wonderful.

He's more than a little surprised when Crowley slithers into the kitchen hissing, his body still a long stretch of black and red scales. He awkwardly pulls himself up onto the chair opposite him, shoving his plate out of the way and flopping down on the tablecloth, making the cutlery judder and the salt and pepper pots tip over.

Aziraphale rights them, and decides that manners dictate he pour the demon a cup of tea before he chastises him. 

"Crowley, dear, is there are reason that you're a snake at the breakfast table?"

Crowley's tongue plays over the edge of his cup briefly, as if he's working up to something. "So, remember what we did last night, specifically after I fed you birthday cake and we went upstairs?" He tilts his head down, fixes both eyes on the angel.

Aziraphale blushes. "The part where we made love while you were in your snake form?"

Crowley hisses. "The bit where you got excited and stuck your dick in my cloaca, yes."

Aziraphale winces. "Must you be so crude?"

"In this case it's relevant," Crowley says, snout nudging the plate further away. "Pertinent you might say. Something of an explanation for my current predicament."

Aziraphale decides this is, in fact, an important conversation and stops buttering his toast.

"Crowley, will you please just explain."

"I can't change back because it's really hard for a human-shaped body to lay snake eggs."

Aziraphale drops his toast. He can see it sliding off the edge of his plate, buttered side down. He laughs nervously.

"I'm sorry, you can't possibly mean -"

"Yesss," Crowley confirms.

"You're -

"Yes."

"I didn't know you could."

"Something of a surprise to me as well," Crowley says flatly, and sticks his entire head in his tea.


	13. By Special Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale gives Crowley something a little bit special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'tentacles' (tentacles, multiple penetration, bondage, suspension, multiple orgasms, blindfolds, explicit sexual content.)

"Are you sure that you can't see anything?" Aziraphale's voice sounds nervous a few inches to his left, his hands gently fussing with the thick blindfold he's tied over Crowley's eyes.

"No, not a blasted thing, I've told you already. I don't know why you're so worried about it."

"I'm not going to be able to concentrate with you looking at me," Aziraphale says simply.

"I like looking at you," Crowley reminds him, and not for the first time. "But I told you, I'll do this any way that makes you happy." It wasn't like the angel hadn't done obscene things to Crowley's original form, which wasn't exactly a beauty to look at. But Aziraphale was still reluctant to show him his own, and so Crowley's going to respect that. Though he knows the basic shape of it, he can feel it every time they kiss. A thousand luminous streams of adoration, a few hundred eyes, the odd impossible twist of matter and energy that looks a bit like a gaping mouth full of teeth. Beautiful. "Any way, I mean it. There's never been a moment I haven't wanted you."

A collection of fingers presses down on Crowley's mouth, stopping the words. He makes a grumbling noise but gives the fingers a kiss and settles.

"Alright, I'm all yours."

Aziraphale leans in, close enough for Crowley to feel the flare of his breath and the faintest brush of lips. The angel's warm hands stay on his waist for a few beats, before slowly slipping away. Crowley's left blindfolded in the middle of the bed, feeling the air currents of the room change as Aziraphale finally leaves his corporation behind.

The first touch is a slow curious slide of what Crowley knows is a painfully luminous tentacle over his shoulder, and there's a sound like bells ringing. Which he's going to guess means that Aziraphale likes the feel of him. Another much thinner appendage touches his hair, another his face, and a fourth the quirk of his mouth. They're slippery and they shiver slightly in this dimension, leaving an after-echo of ethereal energy that tingles pleasantly - more than pleasantly - on his skin.

"Come on, angel," Crowley urges. "You can touch me however you want. You know I can take it."

The bell sounds exactly like a laugh this time, and there are two, three, five tentacles gently curling round his arms, pulling them away from his body as if the angel wants to get a good look at him. Two more slip around his thighs on either side and cinch tight.

"Ah, fuck yes."

The exploration is thorough, wet drifts of slippery attention to his nipples, shoulders and throat, then a slide of intent across his stomach before a curl of thick tentacle loops quickly around his waist. There are shifting lengths of slick interest up both thighs that eventually get tired of the tease and slither across his vulva, and the tight clench of his arse. Testing both entrances to his body with gentle nudges and strokes.

"Yes, yours for the taking angel, inside and out," Crowley reminds him. "Come on, _come on_."

The angel gives him what he wants, squirming a slippery wet tentacle into Crowley's cunt, while another gives careful but determined thrusts into the tight ring of his arse.

"Yesss, just like that." Crowley's hips work as they both spread and stretch and make themselves at home, before settling into a rhythm that has him grunting approval. He throws his head back and moans as the angel's original form works itself hard and deep into him. It quickly becomes apparent that the limbs feel pleasure of their own, shivering their way through gentle orgasms that leave wet bursts of something that stings in a pleasantly sweet way. Something holy left in Crowley's undeserving body. Though those brief moments of satisfaction only seem to spur the angel on further. Crowley's prostate and g-spot get the same amount of furious attention, and his thighs are shaking as every tentacle gets its turn and is very quickly replaced.

"Oh fuck, angel, angel."

Two squirm into his arse at the same time and Crowley whines, loudly, is not entirely surprised when the slick end of a tentacle drifts across his mouth, tapping gently at his lips for access. He opens wide, and is abruptly filled by not one but three lengths of slippery flesh, mouth stretching to its human limit as he chokes a wet sound of approval.

The angel alternates for a while, filling one hole while teasing another. Crowley moans and encourages him when he can, clenches down and garbles pleasure when he can't. Until the angel abruptly decides to cram all three holes full at the same time, and the bedroom is very quickly filled with an obscene chorus of wet squelching and garbled moans. That Crowley would probably feel more embarrassed about if he wasn't currently losing his mind.

The writhing wet lengths of vibrating flesh tangle up his arms and legs and drag him aloft. They hold him upright, and then upside down, and finally spread-eagled in the air, never once stopping their slick greedy movements inside him. He hangs in their grip, making desperate encouraging noises and occasionally giving a bit of a struggle just for fun, gravity ensuring that part of him is always sinking or pushing or bouncing on a length or two - or three - of thick tentacle.

His whole body feels liquid when Aziraphale eventually pins him back to the bed, his vast, flexible, insatiable body ploughing Crowley like a particularly ill-behaved field.

He loses track of time, as he shudders and clenches and squirts through more than a dozen orgasms, as a variety of ridged, ribbed, hard, wide and knobbly appendages vibrate and stretch and rub and pound into his helpless body. Until at one point he's fairly sure he's actively weeping from over-stimulation.

And he loves every fucking moment of it.

He's eventually left sprawled naked in the wet sheets, chest heaving and fluid dripping from every part of him. Both his arse and cunt feeling deliciously sore and thoroughly well-used. Though there's an odd sense of loss in no longer being tangled up by a few dozen of his beloved's slippery limbs.

"Fnargh," he offers.

There's a brief shiver of angelic power and the bed is miracled clean, and so is Crowley. Though he's pleased to discover that his body still feels like it had been the spoiled star of an unexpectedly rough octopus gangbang. Aziraphale is now a warm fleshy weight next to him in the bed, his fingers working in Crowley's hair. He gently removes the blindfold from Crowley's open eyes, and the dim light is oddly sparkly, as if an after-image of Aziraphale still existed in the room.

"Was that alright?" Aziraphale asks.

"Mrghnl' yu," Crowley manages.

Aziraphale gives a breathy laugh and kisses his temple.

"I love you too."


	14. The Muffin Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale heads to Crowley's flat to surprise him. He finds far more than he ever expected waiting for him there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'clones' (clones, clone sex, clone orgy, spanking, snake-crowley, lingerie, morning after, surprises, muffins)

Crowley hasn't been to see him for quite some time.

Aziraphale had left several messages on his answering machine though they've gone ignored so far. Which had led to him having a quick _look_ across London to reassure himself that the demon was safely tucked away in his flat, and not in some sort of terrible peril that he needed rescuing from.

It all points rather depressingly to another one of Crowley's extended naps, and some of those had gone on for years. Honestly, they've only been enjoying each other's company without the demands and constant surveillance of Heaven and Hell for a few months. This is very rude of him.

It only occurred to Aziraphale, after he'd already spent two days wandering the bookshop in a miserable funk, that he could just go over there and wake him up. They only have each other now and he's sure he could think of a perfectly reasonable excuse as to why he needs Crowley to be awake. Or - or he could tell him the truth - be a little bit brave - and admit that he missed him? He thinks they can say things like that to each other now.

Yes.

Aziraphale stops in at the bakery and buys half a dozen of the dark chocolate muffins which he's known Crowley to choose for himself when he thinks no one's looking. He takes the box of them up the lift to Crowley's flat, the warm chocolate scent drifting upwards appealingly. He spends a few moments briefly rehearsing different things that he might say once Crowley's awake. How he'd stretch the truth just a little when he inevitably asked why he'd woken him up. Perhaps he would even be pleased to see him?

The door's locked up tight but it opens for him without question, and he chooses to ignore the brief pang of guilt at the fact that he's technically walking in without permission.

He has muffins!

He heads quietly for Crowley's bedroom, gently pushes open the door - then abruptly stops barely a foot inside, because Crowley isn't alone in the bed.

Though that isn't strictly true, he realises, there are four people in the bed but not one of them is a stranger.

The Crowley in the centre is sprawled naked on his back, arms stretched out across the pillows, though the bends of his elbows are both occupied. On the left side there's another Crowley, with long waves of auburn hair and a dash of smeared lipstick up his cheek. He's curled into the first Crowley's side so intimately that not a speck of light would make it between them. He's wearing a silky camisole that would have brushed the tops of his thighs if he was standing, but has been drawn up indecently by the roll of his body, leaving the spare curves of his buttocks completely bare. The rounded underside of his balls is visible where his right leg is pulled up, with the shadowed promise below it just out of Aziraphale's sight.

On Crowley's right is a version of him with a scatter of dark scales up his long legs, and a further wave of them flows up his naked spine. His hair is a long, rust-coloured plait left to snake across the sheets behind him, and one dark claw is spread lazily across the first Crowley's sleeping chest. The face is still undoubtedly Crowley's, but the angles feel sharper, the mouth stretched a little wider by the bulk of his teeth and the solid hinge of his jaw. The length of a forked tongue slips from his open mouth to flutter across the neck he's rolled into. Though the scaled Crowley is nude as well there's no genitalia to be seen, just a long slit at his pelvis, the edges raised pink and glistening.

Sprawled between Crowley's legs is a third duplicate, his hair short and messy, this one is wearing a thin fabric tie and one sock. His face is pressed into Crowley's hip, and his half-open mouth is intimately close to the softness of Crowley's cock, where it rests in red curls. Both his dark-nailed hands are flung outwards to grasp the legs of the Crowleys on either side. There are sharp, hot handprints on the small curve of his behind, and his lazily spread legs leave enough evidence of pleasure to have Aziraphale's cheeks washing a ferocious red.

The muffins have spent the seconds it had taken him to absorb the entire scene gently sliding from his hands, and they finally reach the point of no return and slip from his grasp, falling to the floor.

Two of them bounce.

One rolls under the bed.

He's not sure if he makes a noise. But the door behind him swings open and a fifth Crowley - the real Crowley Aziraphale understands immediately - comes to an abrupt stop, towel still held over his wet hair.

" _Aziraphale_!" Crowley looks at the bed, looks back at the angel, and then looks horrified all at once. "I can explain, I swear."

Aziraphale waits.

Crowley seems to realise there needs to be an explanation forthcoming. "Alright fine, I was bored and I made duplicates, and our game of Twister got very fucking out of hand," he admits, awkwardly. "I didn't originally intend to - to -" He looks back at the bed, where the version of himself in the short black camisole is now awake and balanced on one hand, yellow eyes fixed on the both of them, mouth smeared shockingly red. One of the thin straps of his lingerie is dangling off a shoulder and his nipples are visible through the sheer fabric.

Aziraphale has never been so aroused in his entire life. "I brought muffins," he says, in what probably isn't a sensible tone of voice. It sounds almost accusing.

Crowley winces, regards the scatter of muffins on the floor. "Perhaps we could all share?" he suggests desperately, as if trying to force everything about this situation to be normal. Aziraphale is trying to concentrate, he really is, but all four Crowleys on the bed are now stretching and shifting in a way that keeps drawing his eyes.

"The muffins?" he asks stupidly.

Crowley looks from Aziraphale to the bed and back again.

"Or - or anything else that takes your fancy," he says slowly.


	15. Small Packages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's assignment for Hell required him to be six inches tall. Once it's done he's reluctant to pop back to original size without experimenting a little first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'tiny' (micro/macro, fantasies)

Aziraphale is reading in bed when Crowley returns from his special assignment. He registers a tug on the blankets and lowers his book, finds the demon sprawled on his thigh, legs crossed, his glasses dangling from one hand. He still appears to be six inches tall.

"You're still small," Aziraphale says in surprise, peering over the top of his glasses at him. "I thought you were finished."

"Yup, all finished up." Crowley makes a gesture and his boots disappear, revealing tiny scaled feet. "Thought maybe we could - y'know - take advantage of it." He flicks his eyebrows up, in a way that Aziraphale has told him to please stop doing.

"Take advantage of the fact that you're six inches tall?" Aziraphale is more than a little confused.

Crowley pushes himself to his feet, and the sensation of him walking up Aziraphale's leg is very strange indeed.

"Yes, take advantage, something of an opportunity here, don't you think?" The demon's bare feet reach the very top of his thigh, and he leans in, balancing his elbows on the rise of Aziraphale's stomach. He slides his sunglasses off, then tosses them into the blankets. He does the eyebrow thing again.

Aziraphale blinks. "I confess, I'm still not entirely sure what you're suggesting," he admits.

Crowley looks put out. "Come on, have a bit of imagination here." He snaps and his shirt melts away in black streams, leaving only a thin, silver scarf draped down his bare chest. "I'm almost exactly a handful, don't tell me you're not tempted?"

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.

"Ok, poor choice of word, but seriously -" Crowley makes his way across the blankets, hand sliding ticklishly across Aziraphale's stomach. He's still managing to put more than a little slink in his walk. "I'm yours for the taking like this." He grins. "All six inches of me."

He does seem excited by the idea, but Aziraphale really can't see how they're supposed to do anything of a sexual nature with Crowley so diminished. 

Crowley stops walking and hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. 

"You could probably hold me in one hand while you touch yourself and I squirm against your fingers, or you could pinch my wrists together between finger and thumb, then pet me until I came. Or maybe toss me down on the pillows and wriggle that big, hot tongue between my thighs. Ah, you could drop me in your lap and let me straddle your cock? Work you with my hands and thighs until you just held my legs shut and used me to bring yourself off. Oh! Or you could pin me squirming to the sheets while you threatened to put a finger inside me." Crowley gives a long breathy hiss. "Or, well, actually put a finger inside me, pretty sure I could take it."

That seems deeply unlikely, Aziraphale's fingers are currently almost the same size as Crowley's legs like this. A fingertip maybe, if he was very careful and Crowley was well-stretched, but even the thought of that seems -

Crowley hasn't finished.

"I could put my mouth on you, not sure you'd get much out of it but it might be fun? Oh, or ride your cock until I came all over it, that's a good one? Might have to swap out genitals for that one, or try it with both? You might be able to rub yourself off on me, if you were careful - that's actually a pretty fucking distracting mental image."

Aziraphale blinks when Crowley stops to breathe.

"Well, you've clearly been thinking about this."

Crowley's expression suggests that the angel has him there. "Honestly, the assignment was very long and very boring. I've been thinking about literally nothing else." He shrugs. "What, I'm going to pretend I don't spend a significant portion of my free time thinking about you?" He shuffles across the top of the thigh he's balanced on, and he seems pleased to discover that Aziraphale's cock is developing a telltale stiffness. He gives a bark of what sounds like triumph and slides down to get a better look.

"Nice to see you getting the idea."

"You were imagining us, like this?" Aziraphale lifts a hand, very slowly moves it downwards - and Crowley spreads his arms, encouraging him to touch. Aziraphale carefully runs a finger down Crowley's chest, he's warm and oddly delicate like this, and he can't resist the quiet breath of surprised laughter when Crowley's hands slide up his finger and then tug, almost knocking himself back onto the bed.

"Come on, it'd be a shame to pop back to original size without trying anything, blankets off, let me touch you."

"Demanding little thing, aren't you?" Aziraphale says, but he makes a gesture, and the blankets slither out from under them both, along with his sensible nightshirt.

Crowley, of course, makes a beeline for the now rather obvious line of his erection.

"Oh fuck, it's huge from this perspective." Crowley sounds delighted, reaching out and pressing his hands to it as if he can't resist the urge. Aziraphale feels the delicate touch, too slight to be arousing, until the demon moves upwards, slides them across the flushed, sensitive head and a shiver is tugged out of him.

"Oh."

Crowley's fingers play around the edge of his urethral opening. The inside of it is slick and smooth under his curious fingers, and Aziraphale's dick gives an excited twitch that almost knocks the demon's hand free.

"I could probably fit my cock in here, fuck you properly, bet that would be sensitive." Crowley leans in, as if he's considering it, one hand slipping down to palm himself through his jeans.

Aziraphale gives a low, quiet whine, hand moving at his side as if it wants to lift and touch him, only to realise the demon's body is now far too small for much enthusiasm. But Crowley seems determined to use the gesture to drag the fantasy out.

"Yesss, you could cup your hand round my arse, nudge me back in every time I pulled out."

"Crowley!"

"Work me like a sex toy until I spilled all the way down inside you."

Fluid is gathering at the hole, slicking Crowley's tiny, tickly hands, which he rubs across the sensitive head, leaving Aziraphale moaning and fisting his other hand in the sheets.

"Of course you'd probably drench me when you came, I'd end up sprawled on your thigh literally covered in your come." Crowley is grinning up at him like a fiend, he knows perfectly well what he's doing.

Aziraphale reaches out, runs two fingers gently down Crowley's back, feeling the slight dip of his spine, the jut of a hip where his jeans have slipped low. He's starting to see the appeal, he will admit.

"You're an awful tease," he tells him. Though he hopes it makes it clear that it's far from a complaint.

"What do you want, angel? My tiny self is available for any weird thing your heart desires."

Aziraphale gives in, with very little reluctance. "I believe you mentioned something about lying decadently in the pillows while I slipped my tongue between your thighs."

Crowley hisses pleasure, and heads for the rise of his stomach.

"Good choice, good choice, stay there, I'll come to you."


	16. Peaceful And Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a surprise for when Crowley wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'that's not how you use it' (sleeping together, snake Crowley, humour, love)

Crowley's floating.

It's a lot like being in space, only he's warm and he can still feel the effects of gravity - he can _mostly_ feel the effects of gravity. His arms are sort of drifting out beside him - maybe bobbing a little. But it really is very comfortable, and very warm.

Sort of wet too.

"Angel?" he murmurs. Because a bed's not normally supposed to be this wet. That sort of suggests something's gone wrong.

The angel-shaped part of the world beside him eases closer, making Crowley bob about in a way that's oddly reminiscent of being on a boat, and something soft presses against his temple.

"Oh, are you awake?" The angel sounds excited and hopeful, though he's trying to hide them both very badly.

Crowley decides he probably needs to be awake for this. He opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is the strange liquid-y shape of a pillow, the second thing he sees is a smiling angel in wet pyjamas reclining next to him, in four feet of water.

Crowley manages a slow blink, because that can't be right, but nothing changes, they're both definitely floating in the wobbly shape of a bed. Where there would normally be sheets and pillows, quilt and mattress, there's just water, moulded impossibly into the shape of all of it.

"It's a waterbed," Aziraphale says, and he sounds pleased. "I've always wanted to try one."

Crowley looks down at his feet, where the water is splashing around his toes in a friendly sort of way as they dip in and out of the bed, tiny waves running over the dark scales.

"I think in a waterbed that the water is supposed to stay inside the bed," he tells him.

Aziraphale frowns. "That doesn't make sense, what would be the point?"

"I think the not-drowning," Crowley provides. "Humans would appreciate the not-drowning."

"I did wonder about that. But it seemed very restful, even if I did have to laminate some of my books." He holds up what looks like a copy of 'Love's Labour's Lost,' now with 100% waterproof pages.

Crowley laughs, he can't help himself. "Angel, you realise this is ridiculous, you can't make a bed out of -"

"It's the sixteenth of November," Aziraphale says simply.

Crowley stops talking and pulls a face - no, it can't possibly be. "No."

Aziraphale nods.

"I've been asleep eleven days?" In this floating aquarium?

Aziraphale gives a little wiggle, which splashes water over them both. "You seemed to be enjoying it, at one point you turned into a snake in your sleep and just floated underwater for nine hours. Then you came and slithered around me, while I read about the Galapagos Islands."

"I did?" Crowley doesn't know if he should feel awkward about that or not.

"Yes, though I did have to give you a brief bop on the snout." He demonstrates with a gesture. "When you tried to get amorous in your sleep."

"Ngk."

"Oh, no harm done. I was waiting for you to wake up, I wanted to see what it felt like to - well, you know, on the waterbed, it's supposed to be rather good." The angel is blushing now, teeth shyly denting his lower lip, looking far more appealing than anyone should be able to in wet pyjamas.

Honestly, it's not like Crowley has ever been able to resist a single thing Aziraphale wants - and watching him float in the water, all soft limbs and wet curls, he's suddenly seeing the appeal as well. He tugs Aziraphale towards him, watching his pyjama cuffs float upwards as he pulls the angel's legs around his waist and slowly presses him underwater.


	17. Proper Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley and Aziraphale enjoy each other, while working around a few anatomical differences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'pegging' (pegging, inhuman anatomy, inhuman genitalia, explicit sexual content, plot what plot)

"Hey, angel." Crowley drapes herself in the door frame to the back room, hands held behind her back. "I was wondering if you could help me with something?"

Aziraphale lowers the book he's holding, his ridiculous little glasses - which shouldn't be so attractive - slipping down a fraction.

"Crowley." He takes in her pose and her expression, and reads her well enough that he immediately closes his book. "Oh, shall I get the heavy duty gloves and the rubber sheeting?"

"Not this time." Crowley swings out what's behind her back, dangles the harness in one hand and the generously sized dildo in the other. "Thought we'd use a bit of human ingenuity."

"Oh, what a marvellous idea." Aziraphale's voice has picked up a faintly breathless edge that Crowley is going to choose to be smugly pleased about. She'd been a bit worried that he wouldn't go for it, more for her sake than his, but he definitely looks interested. 

"Don't know why we didn't think of it before," she admits. "Safer than my own dick for sure, no hooks, spikes or venomous boiling spunk in sight."

"Not that I don't love yours," Aziraphale tells her firmly. "You know that I do."

"With the right protective equipment," Crowley reminds him. Though she has no complaints about the way Aziraphale's stiff gloves feel when they snag pleasantly on the sharp hooks that adorn her cock, or her cunt, once she starts to really get into it. "But this way I can give you a proper seeing to." She's not going to pretend she hasn't been looking forward to it. To the idea of spreading those beautiful cheeks, finding the tight little hole she's had her mouth on and her fingers in, and pressing something a bit girthier inside it, see if she can make her angel squeal a little.

Judging by the way Aziraphale's eyes are drifting from her to the swaying dildo, he's absolutely up for a bit of experimentation.

She pushes off the door frame and straightens. "Come on, angel, upstairs, clothes off, don't keep me waiting or you're in for a spanking."

"I believe you're supposed to be deterring me from taking my time." He raises an eyebrow in her direction, cheeky thing.

"Right you are," she corrects. "Upstairs and clothes off, or you _won't_ get a spanking."

Aziraphale sets the book down with a smile, then stands and lets Crowley herd him up the stairs - where she makes good use of the narrow staircase to grasp handfuls of his buttocks, to his flustered but entirely insincere protests.

She already has her shirt off and her jeans unbuttoned, while he's still working suddenly clumsy fingers on his bow tie, eyes occasionally straying to the harness and dildo waiting on the end of the bed. And she's not going to lie, the angel being so distracted - by her clear intent to have him arse up and speared on a silicone cock this evening - that he's forgotten how to undress is doing things for her.

She tosses her jeans over her shoulder and takes over the task herself, revelling in the opportunity to get her hands and mouth and teeth on every newly exposed patch of soft skin. She does enjoy listening to the angel's shaky breaths and hard noises of surprised pleasure, especially when she digs fingers in and steals a kiss, or two. His cock is already stiff in the curl of her hand long before she gets impatient and snaps his trousers, socks and sock garters away.

They tumble onto the bed together, Aziraphale's hands sliding over her body with a slow indulgence that's far more reverent than she deserves. Her upper body is safe, her thighs and buttocks are safe too, and he spends a while just touching her, his big hands sliding on her chilly, freckled skin. She's a bit more impatient, hands on his cock and between the plush cheeks of his arse, kissing him until his hips are shifting in her grip. His hands wander into less safe territory, between her thighs, sliding up just far enough to touch her outer labia, stroking carefully until she hisses against his mouth.

"Come on, hands and knees, I don't want to drip venom on you when I come."

"Oh, it only stings for a little while, you don't have to fuss." He's already moving though, shifting the pillows out of the way and bending over - and the view is _exceptional_.

She gives his glorious bare behind a quick swat, adoring the way the flesh jiggles, the way it almost pinks under her hand. Then she slips the dildo into the harness and wriggles it up her legs, once it's set she can't resist giving the smooth silicone a few strokes. No nasty surprises here for her angel. Nothing sharp for his beautiful rosy bottom to worry about.

Crowley shuffles closer, easing his buttocks apart and admiring the quick clench of that wrinkled hole.

"Fuck you have a pretty arse, angel." She can hear him laughing, and she can't resist a quick chuckle herself. Honestly, she can't help how much she likes it, she spent millennia admiring the damn thing and finally being allowed to touch it always leaves her a bit distracted. 

She takes her time, with slickly lubricated fingers, circling his hole and then carefully pressing into it, watching him stretch and open for her until his rim is glistening pink around three fingers and he's giving hard, punched-out noises of encouragement, thighs trembling. Crowley's dripping a little herself, the sheets smoking from the few drops of hot, venomous arousal that have landed on them.

"Darling, would you please get inside me," Aziraphale urges on a breath.

Crowley hisses, she doesn't know how she lived without this for so long, without hearing that desperate tone in the angel's voice, without touching the soft give of his skin, without burying her greedy fingers in the warmth of his body.

"Just a bit longer, I have you so open, angel." She presses in with four fingers just to prove it, and loves the way he clenches down on her. "You take this so well, I could do this forever. I love the way you squeeze my fingers - the way you feel from the inssside. Does things to me, good things, very good things, fuck." 

Aziraphale gives a quiet moan at the proof of how much she's enjoying herself, and she can almost hear him biting his lip, restraining himself from protesting any further. But the angel wants, she can tell, and she gives in, she gives one last indulgent thrust into him before drawing free. The she pulls him back by his lovely, generous hips and positions the silicone head of the dildo, warmed and slick, where her fingers just were. Before slowly sinking into him with a long sigh of satisfaction.

"Oh, Crowley -" The rest of the words catch on a low, broken 'ah.' She watches Aziraphale's hands curl on the bed, watches his hips shift under her slow push, she can feel the vibration of his long, appreciative groan.

"Like that do you?"

There's a shaking whine of agreement and his hips push back to meet the flat of her pelvis. It's such an interesting sensation, to be in control of that stiff line of silicone buried inside him, stretching him out in a way she can't help but slide her thumb round, rubbing the slick red skin. She can feel him trembling, she can see the reflexive clenches that catch on that thick shaft.

"Satan, you should see yourself, lovely thing, stuffed full."

He gives a long moan at the words and she eases out half way, sinks slowly back inside, to his wavering noise of enjoyment. This is the best idea she's had for centuries. She curls her hands around his hips, fingers sinking into flesh as she picks up the pace, angling carefully, finding where he's soft and giving, finding what makes him quiver and groan and breathe out hot little gasps. Until he's grunting pleasure on every slap of her hips into his buttocks, toes scrunched tight, back stretched into a curve to brace against the bed. 

Crowley can't stop hissing, her own sex is a frenzy of twisting hooks and spikes and delight, dripping venom on the bedsheets. Maybe later she'll let Aziraphale jam the thing in her so she can shred it to pieces.

That thought, matched with the visual of Aziraphale's tightly stretched anus taking every inch of her, is enough to have her thumping in quick and greedy. She can't help but appreciate the sway of the angel's body as she tries her damnedest to nudge his prostate on every push, one hand slipping around his waist to grasp the stiff length of his cock and work it in quick jerks. "Come on, angel, come on my cock."

"Oh fuck." Aziraphale stiffens, hands fisting in the sheets and his whole body is trembling and squirming between the movement of her hand and the short, hard thrusts of her hips. He's coming over her fingers and across the bed, pushing messily through her hand and moaning her name. The angel's pleasure is beautiful, is always beautiful - and Crowley's insides give one delicious, gnawing heave, barbs and spines stabbing and thrashing in a vicious tangle of angry bliss, before she's left whimpering, thighs shaking, scorching hot venom dripping from her.

She spends a moment curved over Aziraphale's soft, wide back, enjoying the feel of him breathing and the gentle, shivery remnants of his orgasm, before she carefully pulls out of him, unclipping the harness and letting it fall to one side. Then she pulls a sheet up from the bed to slip between her wet thighs before she joins him in the bed for a cuddle.

"Did you like that, angel?" She was going for smug but it comes out more breathless and adoring.

He slips an arm around her waist and pulls her in close. "It was perfect, did you enjoy yourself?"

"Course I did, thighs are soaked, I think the sheet's smoking."

Aziraphale gives her the wide, pleased grin that makes her insides want to burst through her skin, and then kisses the side of her face, where the snake rests.

"Did you vanish the thing?" Aziraphale asks curiously.

"No." She reaches out and prods the sticky dildo with her bare foot. "Why, did you want to go again, because I could go again?"

He considers it while she tangles her black-nailed fingers in his sex-mussed hair.

"Perhaps a snack first?" he decides eventually.


	18. The Sauce, Crowley, The Sauce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley faces punishment for sauce-related reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'sauces' (clones, double penetration, dreams, dream sex)

The bed is incredibly comfortable, Crowley's not sure how long he's been asleep but he's not planning on moving any time soon. He's pressed against Aziraphale's soft chest, and Aziraphale's warm mouth is peppering kisses across the back of his neck. There are three hands stroking his thighs and one curled indulgently around his waist.

"Ah, awake at last," Aziraphale breathes against his cheek. "And about time too. Honestly, we expected better of you."

Crowley blinks his eyes open. "Hmm?"

"Quite right," the Aziraphale in front of him says. "I'm afraid you put far too much red wine in the lamb sauce."

Crowley knows immediately that this is true, of course he did. The expression of disappointment on the pillow next to him is unbearable.

"I know, angel, I'm sorry."

"Quite," the Aziraphale at his back tells him. "You understand that we'll have to punish you?"

Crowley tries to turn his head. "No, you don't have to do that, I didn't mean to. I just got distracted by my phone."

The Aziraphale facing him tuts, and one of the hands between his thighs slides upwards to cup his balls, another presses warm fingers between his buttocks, gives a considering rub to his arsehole. 

"Really, my dear, such flimsy excuses you have."

"It's the truth," Crowley insists, the words breaking on a groan as two slick fingers press into him. "I was reading the recipe -" The fingers are joined by two more, and he hisses at the burn as they start an ungentle rhythm that has his legs shaking. He drops his head to watch two arms working between his thighs. "Fuck."

"Open up for us," Aziraphale purrs against the bend of his jaw. 

Crowley whimpers at that impossible request, because he already did, he's so open, he's stretched out on at least four fingers and he no longer knows which ones belong to who. Both Aziraphales are so tightly pressed to his skin that he can't feel anything else.

"Aziraphale." It's a plea. He'll make new sauce, he'll do better next time.

"No squirming out of your punishment," the one behind him says firmly, lifting Crowley's thigh up and away from his body - and there's a solid, slippery nudge against his sore, stretched hole, demanding its way inside and then sinking deep in one greedy push.

Crowley groans a breath, speared open and delirious as Aziraphale catches his face and kisses him, swallowing his moan of encouragement or possibly protest at the treatment. The sauce was not his fault. He'd never made it before, the angel can't expect perfection if he won't let him cheat. 

His mouth is released and he's immediately moaning again as a strong, slick hand wraps tight around his cock from behind and starts to work it.

"Ah, fuck, please."

The Aziraphale in front of him tucks between his thighs, fingertips rubbing where the other version of him is sliding in and out, pulling and tugging at his tightly stretched rim. It's good but it's almost too much, the thought of the angel trying to cram himself in there too, of forcing Crowley to stretch and open and submit to being stuffed full of them both.

"Aziraphale," he says, all breathless whine. "It's too much, I can't."

"Nonsense," Aziraphale says firmly, shifting his legs between his counterpart's and lining himself up. The cock inside Crowley slides slowly free, leaving his anus to clench weakly at the slick head before its joined by another, and they're both squeezing and pressing and then pushing in, stretching him into a burning ache, spearing him open around the width of them both. Crowley's hissing every breath, held open and helpless while the angel takes him from the front and the back, fills his body to its limit in strong, punishing thrusts. Until he's whimpering between the grasp of them both, feeling cored open and hollowed out, a thing to be used.

There's a soft little 'oh yes' from the front and a 'beautiful thing' from the back, and Crowley is already shuddering and whimpering through those hard pushes that touch every space inside him -

" _Crowley_."

Crowley startles awake, finds himself sprawled uncomfortably on the sofa looking at Aziraphale's upside face. The angel is holding a book and looking far more put together than Crowley feels.

"Fnrh?" he offers. The dream is reluctant to let him shake it off, and he has an erection that could probably drill through steel. He has a horrible suspicion that the angel is trying very hard not to draw attention to it.

"Crowley, your sauce is burning."

His what? Shit, yes, he'd been cooking them dinner. The sauce was only supposed to simmer for ten minutes. He tries to throw himself upright, misses the fact that his feet were under the cushions and ends up sprawled on the very hard concrete floor.


	19. Work Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Armageddon fails, Crowley is given a very special assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was too late to write something for the prompt last week, which was 'IKEA.' But chamyl said I should write my story anyway, so I did. It didn't technically count, but it was still a lot of fun :D

"I still don't understand why you chose IKEA," Aziraphale asks curiously. "I can think of a dozen far more hellish places to work just off the top of my head."

"Ah, that's not the point though is it." Crowley shoves his fingers in the pockets of his jeans as he rounds the Bentley. "If they make it too hellish then none of them would learn anything. It would feel just like being downstairs - eh, a brighter and more upholstered version of downstairs anyway. But then they'd start behaving like demons and anywhere they set up shop would have no choice but to soak up all those extra occult vibes. Which is how you get the bleeding walls, unholy shrieking and thick miasma of corruption soaking into the place." He pulls a face, because he'd had enough of that in hell, thank you very much. "People tend to notice things like that. No, they have to learn how to fit in without using tricks and demonic miracles for a change, and that's on orders all the way from the top. They have to learn how to blend in - to properly blend in with humanity."

"Still, IKEA feels like a strange choice," Aziraphale insists. "It seems so...well, sort of harmless?" Even as he says the words he frowns as if he's not quite sure if they're true, looking up to consider the looming yellow and blue building that had been hastily constructed in one of the less depressing parts of purgatory. The car park needs a bit of work, since at the moment it's just a desolate expanse of grey nothing. One lone demon with large moth eyes is slowly pushing a length of trolleys from one end to the other. There's no telling how long they've been doing it for. Or if they even know what the trolleys are for.

"Nah, it's perfect, think about it. It's an experience right smack in between heavenly and hellish." Crowley had been particularly pleased about what a good fit it was. Because he takes pride in his work, even if no one ever appreciates his ingenuity. "All that hope, imagination and optimism turning into frustration, disappointment, anger and despair. Simulates humanity perfectly."

Aziraphale takes a moment to think about, before giving a 'hmm' and tipping his head.

"I do see your point."

"Knew you would." Crowley stamps down on the urge to smile and slide a little closer, jostle against the angel's elbow, maybe slip their fingers together - make him smile in that surprised way he'd been doing since the world nearly ended. That reminder of 'I can touch you now,' that always seems to delight him. Never mind what it does to Crowley.

But the demons aren't the only one's who're meant to be working, so he resists the urge, tells himself _later_ as they both walk through the suspiciously greasy automatic doors and into the brightly lit interior.

"And since I'm the only person who's spent any real time among humans - without having them scream and run in the other direction, or setting anything on fire - Satan's promised me ten thousand years of non-interference and continued access to hell benefits if I agreed to help. Signed in blood and everything."

"Rather too much of yours," Aziraphale says waspishly, then sighs. "But I understand and I support you one hundred percent."

"Hnghr," Crowley manages to choke out.

"I understand exactly what that noise means you know," Aziraphale reminds him. "I always have done." He reaches out and gently tugs Crowley to a stop. "I know you still find us a little overwhelming. And I know you have a tendency to catastrophize, which is only natural considering, but I am going to be here if you need me. I am always going to be here for you now."

"Ngk - Stop it," Crowley grumbles, because he refuses to have feelings while wading through an IKEA staffed by trainees from hell and -

\- Hastur.

The yellow and blue striped uniform they've put him in does nothing for his pallid complexion, or his tendency to view lurking as a state of being. He's currently lurking in full view of the entrance and he clearly hates it. He looks murderous under his awful wig, black eyes fixed on them both as they wander closer. Crowley takes his time wandering, just to watch the Duke of Hell vibrate furiously behind the counter, which cheerfully offers a display of brochures promising reasonable prices for wardrobes, beds and coffee tables.

They can't avoid him forever though, and Crowley leans in and balances an elbow on the office set-up Hastur is guarding, while Aziraphale distracts himself reading about the perfect study lighting.

Someone had forced Hastur to wear a nametag, only it doesn't read 'Hastur,' instead there's a dark, jagged sigil that looks like an eye bleeding into another dimension.

"I think you're probably supposed to have that written in English," Crowley points out. "I don't think members of the public can read occult signs." He tips his head to one side. "And staring at it for too long is going to make their eyes bleed, and then they'll start seeing bits of what we really are. They tend not to be that invested in buying cheap furniture when that happens."

Hastur glares.

"State your furniture demands," he grates out, in a tone that seems better suited to threatening gruesome death.

"Really, you're not even going to try and do this properly?" Crowley raises a surprised eyebrow. "Orders from Satan himself."

Hastur's face does something that looks painful, before it settles into a grimace that shows too many of his teeth.

"Hello," he seethes angrily. "State your furniture demands, and I will retrieve them from the depths."

Crowley decides that's probably the best they're going to get. Much as he'd love to needle Hastur some more, they have a very long checklist today, and he'd decided to just start at the top and work his way down. They can always get creative later.

Aziraphale has finished with his brochure and takes the opportunity to nudge in against Crowley's side, much to Hastur's obvious distress. Crowley suspects someone has been spreading the rumour that angelic bodily fluids are holy enough to kill normal demons. Some crafty bastard in sunglasses probably, they're not to be trusted.

"We're looking for a new wardrobe," Aziraphale offers cheerfully.

"Twin wardrobe," Crowley adds.

"Second floor," Hastur growls. "Where the material goods are soft and weak."

Crowley tips his head, stares off into the distance at the hanging lamps, soft furnishings and infinite shapes of chair, before sucking air through his teeth.

"Ah, perhaps someone could show us? This place looks pretty big and we'd hate to get lost." Crowley gives him a pointed look over his glasses. "Can't imagine that would get you very good marks, people getting lost and disoriented, leading to any number of tragic falls, starvation, or accidental predation by hellish creatures."

Hastur doesn't look away from them, but he reaches out and picks up a radio from under the desk that looks like it's at least thirty years old. He jabs a button on it.

"Expendable worker minion to the front desk now. You have thirty seconds to comply." The button snaps off, but the feedback still whines out of the block of plastic and exposed wires.

A maggot falls out of Hastur's hair and lands on the radio, wriggling among the buttons for a moment before dropping to the counter. Crowley gives it a pointed look.

An Erik appears from a wide aisle glittering with mirrors.

"Welcome to IKEA," he says cheerfully. Though he pronounces it ' _ickier_.' "I hope you're having a good morning so far. I'm Erik -" He points at the nametag he's wearing. "I'm here to assist you in all your furniture procurement, decorating choices, manual labour and beverage needs." He smiles and Crowley has to give him points for already giving off the slightly manic air of a retail worker trying not to look as if they've been given three hours work ten minutes before clocking off time.

"If he does not assist you he will be killed and fed to the basement wasps," Hastur tells them.

"I don't think you're allowed to mention the basement wasps," Erik says carefully, while still maintaining his friendly smile. "It was in the pamphlet."

"He will be killed in a manner of our choosing," Hastur corrects grudgingly.

Aziraphale is still smiling but Crowley can see him already mentally scribbling 'threats of death inappropriate in the workplace' on the scorecard of the day. He swivels on the heel of his boot, ignoring the faintly sticky noise the floor makes.

"Come on then, Erik, bedroom furniture, chop, chop." He may or may not have offered a touch of emphasis on _bedroom_ , but Hastur can have his tantrum once they're gone. It's his own fault he doesn't get to work in the warehouse with Ligur. That's what you get for calling the Antichrist a ' _disobedient little shitstain_ ' after he goes to the trouble of popping your lurking partner of six thousand years back into existence.

"The premises are closing in six hours, be gone by then or your corporations will be repurposed for stylish and affordable seating," Hastur snarls after them.

"This is going to be a long assignment isn't it?" Crowley grumbles as Erik leads them off, enthusiastically explaining the entire layout of the store, which Crowley suspects he'd been tortured into memorising.

"It's the first assignment we've ever done together," Aziraphale points out with a smile.

Crowley offers a grudging noise of acknowledgement, he has to give the angel that.

"And you get to mark them all afterwards," he reminds him. "You'll enjoy that part."

Aziraphale loops his arm through Crowley's and gives an enthusiastic wriggle.

"Do you know what, I think I will."


	20. Call Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale finds themselves in need of some assistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'summoning' (Summoning, roleplay, costumes, embarrassment, rescue, idiots in love)

Anathema eyes her mobile suspiciously, where 'unknown number' is currently lit above the green icon of a phone. She hasn't given many people her number and she usually has some sort of indication, occult or otherwise, that she's going to receive a call. 

This one had come as a complete surprise, but she's learned to trust her gut, and her gut says answer, so she swipes the symbol and lifts it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Anathema, hello." It's the soft but ever so slightly panicked voice of an angel on the other end. "Oh, how nice to speak to you, it's been a while, I know. How are you keeping? ... _angel we don't have time for pleasantries._...Crowley, a little politeness goes a long way -... _you're stalling, just ask her to come._ " 

There's a sigh and then a brief muffled noise, as if the person holding the phone had moved it out of reach of the other. 

"I was wondering if you would perhaps be kind enough to assist us. We've found ourselves in a small spot of bother... _'a spot of bother' is that how you want to phrase it?_...if it's not too much trouble, please. We'd both be very grateful -"

"How can I help you, Aziraphale?" Anathema interrupts, because she suspects these two could go on forever if she doesn't. If this is some sort of new world-ending emergency then it's best to just jump straight on it. Terrifying lack of prophecies aside.

Not that she regrets it.

Not often.

No more than once or twice a day.

-

It takes her an hour and twenty minutes to get to London, considerably less time to find Aziraphale's shop, which is both something of a landmark and layered over expertly with what she can only guess are both angelic and demonic wards. The door of the bookshop opens and lets her in before her fingers touch the wood, and she tries not to feel trapped when it immediately shuts and locks behind her.

"Aziraphale?"

There's a faint thump from over her head, and the sound of a hissed discussion that she can hear at least half of. She's starting to suspect this might be less of a world-ending peril sort of emergency, and more of an awkward personal sort of emergency.

" _We're upstairs, third door on the left!_ " 

It takes her a few minutes to find it. She's fairly sure that the bookshop's interior layout is very different to what the exterior would suggest. As if it's playing with its own dimensions, stretching parts of itself out to fit in more books, more shelving, more floorspace. There are small tables holding plants between rows of books. A strangely out of place statue on an interior balcony that shouldn't technically exist. A door that appears to lead to nowhere, and a blank patch of wall where she's absolutely certain a door should be.

She does eventually find the right door and pushes it open.

There's a very large summoning circle chalked into the hardwood floor, symbols etched expertly inside it. It's surrounded by a ring of salt, a collection of dried herbs and a circle of thick white candles burning brightly away. In the middle of the thing is a familiar angel, wearing what looks to be an entire Catholic priest outfit, his face is astonishingly red, fingers squeezing the crucifix dangling around his neck. The demon, Crowley, is wearing a spread of elegant scales and nothing else, one clawed hand tapping his own bicep. He looks very annoyed, though the tips of his ears are red as well.

"Oh," Anathema offers, because she's an intelligent woman. 

"Yes, yes," the demon snaps. "This is humiliating enough, stop staring and kick over a few candles."

"Crowley may have accidentally - ah - re-lit them all in a moment of excitement. While we were both inside."

Crowley frowns and makes a gesture, as if to urge the angel to stop talking.

"Aziraphale, she doesn't need to know that."

"I was explaining how we came to be in such a predicament in the first place."

"She's a clever girl, I'm pretty sure she's already worked it out," Crowley says tartly. His eyes are full yellow and huge, if not for the frustrated irritation held in every line of him, Anathema would have said he looks remarkably relaxed. She's happy for them, really she is. But this is awkward for everyone involved.

Aziraphale is still gesturing. "The candles, well, once they were lit the circle closed, forming an impenetrable barrier, which unfortunately neither of us could cross. Silly of us not to plan for the possibility since that's what it's designed to do, but we got a bit carried away -"

" _Aziraphale_ ," Crowley insists.

"Not that I don't take full responsibility -"

Anathema suspects that the angel will continue to awkwardly talk around the fact that he and the demon were clearly indulging in a bit of vaguely blasphemous sexy demon-summoning roleplay if she doesn't do something, and is already leaning down and wetting her fingers, before pinching the candle wicks.

"Oh, thank fuck for that." Crowley snaps his fingers, and is abruptly re-dressed and wearing his familiar sunglasses, serpent eyes and scales firmly tucked away. "So, yeah, thanks for that." It's grudging but Anathema doesn't think he's a demon who says thank you very often.

"Thank you so much, I can't apologise enough for the inconvenience." Aziraphale is also now dressed in his more familiar pale suit, hands pressed together so hard they've gone pale. "Or the circumstances, I'm terribly embarrassed, but we didn't know who else to call."

"It's fine," Anathema says hurriedly. "I'm happy to help. Mistakes happen, no harm done." And when you've been pining over each other for a few thousand years you could probably be forgiven for getting a little carried away in the moment.

"Except to my dignity perhaps," Aziraphale murmurs.


	21. A Death In The Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley ruins Aziraphale's plans for the day, and he's very unhappy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'discorporation' (Temporary character death, humor, hints of necrophilia, idiots in love)

Aziraphale looks down at the body. It's definitely a dead body, he's seen more than a few of them over the years.

"We're very sorry for your loss," the priest tells him. He gives very good condolences, there's a sincerity to his words, a bolstering sort of comfort.

"Thank you," Aziraphale offers in exchange, because what else is there to say.

"It's hard to lose a friend, and especially in such a tragic accident. But he's in a better place now." 

"Yes," Aziraphale agrees, rather than have any sort of opinion at all on that. He's turning his hat in his hands and he can't make himself stop. This is terribly awkward.

The priest seems to take his silence for grief-stricken shock and offers a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. "I'll leave you with the body." He exits through the door, but not before gesturing towards the table, where a small basin of water and a pile of folded cloths have been left. It takes Aziraphale a moment to understand what had been assumed. Not only did Crowley have to go and very inconveniently die on him, now he's to be responsible for washing his body for burial. 

"I blame you entirely for this," Aziraphale tells the silent corpse of his friend. "Honestly, I look away for five minutes and you're leaning over a railing _to get a better look_. You idiot." He drops his hat on a chair. It's infuriating that he's now going to have to wait around for weeks, possibly months, for Crowley to complete all the paperwork necessary to acquire a new corporation. And so soon after they'd tentatively managed to put their fight in the park behind them.

There's not much visible damage. The demon had fallen three stories and landed on his back and it was the damage to his skull that had killed him. Catastrophic most likely, so no spending a few seconds in miserable agony trying to heal himself. 

Aziraphale had reached him too late, and he'd had to make sure no one saw anything unusual about his eyes. It had been horribly disturbing seeing them staring upwards with no spark of Crowley to be found. Unexpected too, as if he should have somehow taken that demonic aspect with him.

Their bodies are really just human suits, as sturdy as they can make them but not really subject to the same biological processes of decay. The carbon will start to break apart once it's somewhere cold and dark. It's not like he actually needs to - blast it all - he sighs and gets to work on Crowley's cravat.

"Really, this is such an imposition, we were supposed to be trying the new chocolates at Mrs Manderson's shop this afternoon." Crowley's long overcoat is too bloody and torn to be saved for the poor, and neither of them are keen on repairing clothing with miracles. "And you're not wearing an undershirt. Of course you're not, if it's not on show for everyone it's not important, is it?" The shirt is awkward to get off, Crowley's limbs, over-long and no more willing to be obedient in death than they were in life, seem determined to remain entombed within his shirt sleeves. "Sixteen different kinds." Aziraphale finally strips it free and shakes it angrily. "With fruit fillings. I was especially excited about the cherry."

The demon is silent and bare-chested on the table, revealing peaked nipples and a smattering of chest hair. His body now devoid of even a spark of what makes Crowley unique. Though Aziraphale currently has nowhere else to direct his ire.

"And now we've missed the grand opening. Honestly, you couldn't have chosen to be careless on any other day?"

He gets to work on Crowley's boots, which are actually boots today, thank heavens. Before moving back up and undoing his trousers, working them down his long legs. 

Aziraphale hasn't seen Crowley's legs since the sixteenth century, but he's currently too cross over his untimely demise - and his era-inappropriate lack of underwear - to feel like this is taking advantage. The splay of his thighs is indecent and Aziraphale tells him so, one leg flung outwards as if to show off the slender curve of his cock resting in fetching red curls. His body is so close to slipping from the table, Aziraphale supposes that it might if he waits long enough.

"If you're just going to toss your corporation around willy-nilly like you've not a single care for it then why shouldn't I?"

He sets Crowley's body to rights anyway, then soaks and wrings out the cloth. Gets to work on the demon's face (well-known and secretly loved, for all that he knows he shouldn't) his neck (horribly distracting and constantly used to full advantage by the fiend) then across his chest (such inviting nipples and if he washes them a little too vigorously then it's simply due his irritation.)

The cloth is rinsed and set again to Crowley's skin. The visible curves of his ribs (flexible serpent that he is) and the almost concave spread of his stomach with its enticing trail of hair downwards (Aziraphale tries to feed him but Crowley can be vexing about what he puts in his mouth -)

Aziraphale washes there for a moment, thoughts distracted.

" _Well this is undignified_."

The noise that Aziraphale lets out is not a shriek - but only because he briefly has to stop an entire basin of water from spilling onto a corpse. Drifting next to him, in shades of grey and throbbing red, is the demon himself. Or what remains of his connection to his corporation at least. He's leaning on thin air, mouth scrunched in distaste.

"Crowley, what on earth are you doing here? Shouldn't you been downstairs queueing for a replacement?"

"That's a very accusing tone from someone currently in a room with my dead body." Crowley's voice is all amusement and suggestion rather than contrition for his swift exit, which is deeply unfair. "I know I wasn't naked when I died. Didn't know you had it in you, angel."

"This is your fault," Aziraphale tells him. "Your untimely demise now has me seeing to your belongings and notifying your associates and -"

"Washing my cock."

"Washing your -" Aziraphale looks down and finds that he has in fact been working his way downwards during his hurried explanation and is now pulling the wet cloth over Crowley soft genitals. He makes himself stop. "This is very awkward with you here."

The misty serpentine form of Crowley folds one leg shape over the other, and gives him the most unnecessarily suggestive look.

"I'm sorry, would you prefer to be alone while you're erotically bathing my body?"

Aziraphale tosses him a scandalised look at the accusation, which only serves to make the demon laugh.

"That's not at all what I'm doing - stop trying to get a rise out of me." That just makes Crowley laugh harder and Aziraphale sighs. "I'd rather not be doing this at all. But I've been given a duty and I'm going to fulfil it."

"To the best of your abilities, eh?" Crowley slips in behind him, all heated air and faint scent of burning. "Well then, you want to do a good job, don't you? Spread me out and get in all those hard to reach places."

"Don't be crude," Aziraphale tells him. "This is meant to be a solemn occasion."

Crowley peers over his shoulder to where the cloth is now held in mid-air, droplets falling against the wet length of his penis, leaving a trail of water to follow the vein. Crowley is to blame, Crowley is entirely to blame for the way the sight of it suddenly makes his cheeks heat. 

"I think I'll stay around for a bit," Crowley decides. "Make sure you don't miss anything. Make sure you're appropriately reverent with my body. Maybe offer the odd suggestion about where you should pay particular attention."


	22. 6004 A.D.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale and Crowley have a very surprising encounter far in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'Alpha Centauri' or 'Good Omens in space' (sci-fi, futurefic, aliens)

"Oh, you have to try this one," Aziraphale insists. "The strawberry's molecular structure is built inside the high density liquid, allowing the oxygen and carbon dioxide that escapes to burst through and suffuse the drink. It's the new thing, absolutely marvellous."

Crowley makes a rude noise at him over the holographic drinks menu.

"It's not that marvellous. I can convert matter into a strawberry. You can convert matter into a strawberry."

Aziraphale whaps him with his gloves - which were at least two hundred years out of date, but that was fashionable at the moment. Far more fashionable than Crowley's very expensive blood-red jumpsuit, which he'd bought yesterday for a ridiculous amount of credits. Crowley isn't entirely sure whether Aziraphale knows that or not. He chooses to be amused about it rather than infuriated.

"Oh hush and drink it, you'll like it," Aziraphale insists.

Crowley pouts. "It'll be too sweet for me."

"Nonsense, your serpentine senses will find it just sharp enough to be pleasant, remember that time I put strawberries in my -"

"Fine, fine, I'm drinking it." Crowley lifts it, only to have his elbow jostled unexpectedly by an alien appendage he somehow hadn't seen, spilling half the pink liquid on the table.

"Oi, watch it," he says, at exactly the same moment Aziraphale says. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry." Even though it wasn't even his fault.

Crowley leans sideways in his chair to see who the rude bastard interrupting their lunch is.

Aliens. Figures. Probably didn't even have lunch on their home planet.

No.

No, he realises, not aliens.

The taller of the two, armoured at the legs and mid-section, all colourful tentacles and slow-waving fins everywhere else, looks very much like the inhabitants of Virsinis, a small planet a hundred and fifty or so light years from here. 

But Crowley is close enough to feel the deep cold inside the cage of its chest. To see the weight of heavy spines pierced through them. To hear the rattle of metallic rain. The grate of sound that Crowley knows is a thing unlike anything human in pain. The heavy, suffocating weight of a place deep underground, locked in ice and filled with the endless crush of beings forever forsaken.

Aziraphale is staring at the other one, its shorter companion and when Crowley looks at them he can see the shimmering wave of warm water, the chosen messengers of the Word, faithful, obedient, ever moving, ever travelling upwards to bring new life. The second one rings like a bell, smells like salt and the tang of dizzy xenon and fireworks.

Their strange appendages - which had been looped together - snap apart, and they both flush the blue of shame, at having been caught doing something they knew that they shouldn't.

"Oh," Aziraphale says, surprised, and then he says it again, so much softer. A gentle little sound of understanding.

"Well I'll be damned," Crowley murmurs. "Again."

There's a long moment of silence as they both contemplate each other. Strange counterparts from another galaxy, another heaven, and another hell. Their visitors have _seen_ them in turn, their confusion and their surprise mirrored. Crowley slides his hand across the table without looking, and Aziraphale grips it, laces their fingers together.

"Would you like to join us for lunch?" the angel offers. "I hear the shellfish here is lovely."

There's a brief communication between the two strangers, a ringing of bells and a fast wave of brightly coloured iridescence along their bodies that Crowley knows the species isn't capable of. The ethereal and occult strangers slip into the seats opposite them - and, after a moment, their limbs reach across the space between them and intertwine.


	23. Worship For Thee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the bookshop is a well-loved place, and a demon prays to an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'prayers' (reverse AU, rimming, blasphemy, explicit sexual content)

"Come into my bookshop, you said, we'll have a few glasses of wine, you said." Crowley hisses when all that gets him is a laugh against the skin over his hip, a kiss pressed to the sharp tail of the golden snake that winds its way around his body. "I should know better by now."

"And yet you still come," Azaroth says throatily. "You still let me worship at your altar. Wicked, disobedient thing that you are."

"Slander, I do exactly what I'm told," Crowley reminds him, not for the first time.

"And absolutely no more," Azaroth teases. "Usually less -"

That is not a matter for debate while the demon is hiking his thighs open and looking at his arsehole like it's a bloody three course meal he can't wait to savour.

Crowley makes a protesting noise. But then Azaroth says his name against the bare slope of his thigh, _his real name_ , the one he doesn't use on earth. Because it rings through him like a bell, forces him to listen, his name blessed with all the power of creation. Azaroth lays it against the pale skin with a wealth of fondness and affection and more than a hint of blasphemous desire - and Crowley has to reach down and tangle his fingers in that tumble of thick, dark curls. The demon never seems to mind how tight he holds, or how hard he pulls.

"Don't, fuck, don't -" His thighs shudder as Azaroth sinks lower, leaving kisses down his leg as he goes. The scrape and prickle of hair is distracting and exquisite. "You'll make it a prayer, I've told you. I can't concentrate while you -"

Azaroth's laugh is warm and then wet as he presses his mouth to the sensitive top of Crowley's thigh, large hands spreading him wide open, exposing him fully on the sofa in the dark backroom. He feels like nothing less than an offering and he moans at the blasphemy of it.

"Oh, angel of starlight, bless me, for I fully intend to sin terribly against your beautiful skin," Azaroth's hands flow over his hips and catch tight. "To set my mouth to every curve of you, to eat the fruit of your trees, and drink the honey of your body. Invite me into your temple and I will fill your every empty space, leave you offerings until you sing my praises."

Crowley fists a hand in one of the sofa's smoke-scented blankets, hissing through his teeth as his whole body accepts that like a promise.

"Demon," Crowley whines, but it's sounded nothing like a curse for years and years. "Stop praying to me."

"I like the way it makes your eyes go full gold," Azaroth tells him, before thumbing open his buttocks and sliding a wet tongue over the very centre of him.

Crowley gasps, fists his toes in the silken back of Azaroth's waistcoat, and bites back a moan of encouragement. He lets it go on, lets the demon push his legs wider, fitting his shoulders between. He licks Crowley open with more enthusiasm than finesse, merciless thing that he is. There are quick thrusts of tongue, hard kisses and sharp digs of teeth that leave him wet and open and unbearably sensitive. Until Crowley is panting, legs shaking, feeling the edges of himself slowly coming apart.

Azaroth leaves him like that, spread obscenely open, while he rises between Crowley's skinny thighs, mouth and beard shiny-wet. He tugs carelessly at the fly of his trousers, reaching inside and fisting himself with an oiled hand.

"Oh angel of stardust and space let me into your most holy places -" Azaroth is laughing when Crowley lifts a hand and covers his mouth. But he still lets the demon set his cock where he's slick and open and _needful_ , lets him push roughly inside. He lets Azaroth grip tight to his hips and do exactly what he promised he'd do, what Crowley's essence is now ringing with the fulfilment of.

_Prayer granted._

_Prayer granted._

It's absolute bliss.


	24. On A Technicality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale reports how Crowley completely failed to seduce him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'reports' (breast worship, nippleplay, coming untouched)

The angel always smells amazing up close, not the fancy colognes and the pomade, but the warm, static-y ethereal scent of him that fizzes on Crowley's tongue. He always forgets how much he misses it, how much he craves it. He can never resist burying his face in Aziraphale's neck and breathing him in. The angel gives a low moan of pleasure at the first touch of his open mouth, head tilting to encourage him.

"Crowley, I have to write a report. They'll want to know how exactly I got out of France."

"So write one." Crowley's hand slides down, fingers nudging aside the fan on his frilly shirt (honestly, the fact that he'd put the outfit back on the moment they reached England.) He tugs one of the small buttons open so he can slide a hand inside and find the warmth of angel skin underneath. He bites gently at Aziraphale's neck, unable to contain himself at the feel of him. "Put me in it, s'been a while, I could use a little publicity."

"While you -"

"Yes," Crowley agrees, thumb drifting up to tug at his nipple, shameless thing that it is, he can see the shape of it through the cotton, demanding and indecent.

He hears Aziraphale pull in a sharp breath, chest expanding into his touch. Crowley remains perfectly still - pointedly - until Aziraphale huffs and rifles on his desk for a quill and some paper.

"Fine, I'm writing it," the angel informs him. "Earth Operative Aziraphale, report, time, date and origin. Concerning brief trip to secure possible supporters for the further glory of God."

"Also crepes," Crowley offers.

Aziraphale laughs, though the sound cuts off on a gasp when Crowley rolls his nipple with a wet thumb, watching the fabric dampen and cling, revealing the shape of it.

"Ah - the presence of the demon Crowley was noted."

The shirt strains when Crowley pulls it to one side to expose that gently rounded swell of breast, pale and inviting, dusted with hair, the perfect pink nipple peaked just for him. He leans down and gently presses his mouth to it. Then not so gently. A wet sucking kiss to that beautiful peak.

Aziraphale makes a breathless noise, paper crinkling violently. Crowley suspects there's now a spill of ink across the table.

Perfect. It rolls so nicely under his tongue.

"The demon Crowley, wicked fiend that he is, attempted to seduce me."

"Attempted to seduce you. Course I did, look at you, fucking frills and nonsense, you flirtatious teasing bastard." Crowley neglects words for a minute so he can open his mouth and suck at the soft underside of the angel's chest, tongue curling along the small but particularly luscious little curve beneath. "How could I not seduce you?"

"I resisted his foul temptations," Aziraphale says weakly. "Though they were fiendish and well-practised."

"Hmm," Crowley agrees, his mouth opening around the angel's breast, lips cradling that plush weight, tongue sliding round his already soaking nipple.

"His - his devious intentions were obvious from the start." Aziraphale's thighs press together and the angel hisses a breath when Crowley decides to be greedy, sucking indulgently at that generous offering. "His intentions to boast at having despoiled an angel."

The way he says it, shocked and needful - Crowley slips his hand in the other side of the shirt, the stitches popping under his enthusiasm. He curls his hand around the angel's other breast, his mouth opening wider, then closing to suck again, rubbing the hard jut of Aziraphale's nipple against his tongue.

The inkwell falls over somewhere in the background and there's a damp hand in Crowley's hair, likely streaking ink through the red of it. The fingers thread inside and then close tightly, pulling at it to encourage Crowley's mouth into enthusiasm. Until Aziraphale is panting, desperate whines breaking from him.

"His obvious experience in leading people into temptation is not to be underestimated," Aziraphale breathes, though Crowley suspects the paper he'd been writing on is now on the floor. "He's beautiful and wily and it would be very easy to fall into his clutches."

Crowley lets his mouth fall slack, licks the curving, fleshy underside, the soft swell where ribs connect, before drifting to lavish his attention on the stiff jut of his nipple again. The skin is warm and wet from his mouth. The soft hair flattened and dark to the skin. He could never get tired of this, he could never have enough of this.

"Going to make you come in your fancy breeches," he breathes. Which is honestly half promise and half demand. He feels Aziraphale's chest jolt into his mouth, feels the angel groan agreement and use the grip on his hair to push Crowley's mouth against the most sensitive part of him.

Crowley has no objection to that. He would never refuse a mouthful of this particular angel. He'd happily be stuffed full, let his jaw unlock and draw down and worship every curve with his mouth. His body shivering with the pleasure of it. He's so hard against the arm of the chair it hurts. But he lives for this.

He lets his teeth bite gently into the give of it, then slowly release to feel the softness settle. He does it again, sliding back to tug at the nipple, to roll and flick at it with his tongue. It's too easy to close and suck, the pull of his mouth gentle and then greedy, repeating until the angel is squirming in the chair. Whispering his name like a prayer.

Crowley gives a low moan of enjoyment, spreading his lips wide and filling his mouth with angel. Aziraphale's hand locks tight in his hair, fingers grasping to the point of delicious pain. His hips push up into Crowley's thigh, his mouth opening for a long gasping series of pleasurable noises, before he shudders and then finally goes still.

Crowley can't resist sucking him for a little longer, until Aziraphale's breast is slippery-wet and red from his mouth. He can smell the angel's orgasm, the messy stain on his fancy breeches that was entirely Crowley's fault. He lets his own arousal gently throb and ache through him. Next time. Next time perhaps they'll wrestle again, perhaps the angel will even let him win, and Crowley will rut against his beautiful, exceptionally plush arse.

He gives the wet, debauched curve of the angel's breast one last kiss, and then gently puts his shirt to rights.

The indecent sprawl of Aziraphale across his armchair, and the saucy, satisfied half-smile he offers up to Crowley - and never anyone else - has him briefly wondering if he should repeat the whole affair with the other side. Or tear the angel's whole shirt open and do both at the same time. Leave both his nipples swollen and red from Crowley's mouth. He knows how much the angel likes it.

"Better finish your report," he says instead, voice rough.

Aziraphale makes a soft noise of regret but reaches a hand out for the quill and retrieves the paper with a gesture. Crowley re-buttons him slowly while the angel writes.

"The seduction failed, of course, I managed to resist his fiendish advances and I remained unviolated. I have no doubt that my experience with spotting a seduction, due to my long history observing humanity, gives me an edge that leaves me more than capable of thwarting any further attempts."

"Hmm," Crowley agrees. "Definitely going to be further attempts." He stretches up to kiss Aziraphale's lovely pink mouth. "I think I've failed to violate you two hundred and thirty seven times now."

Aziraphale pulls him back in for another kiss, and then another, mouth soft and adoring and so familiar. "It's not my fault that heaven decided only penetrative sex counts."

Crowley grunts agreement, and if they ever actually update that rule, he may go to war with heaven himself.


	25. Knock-offs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale and Crowley watch television together, and everything is very silly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt 'Let's watch...' (silliness, rimming mentioned, casual nonsense, idiots in love.)

For all that someone might assume that the two of them would find it impossible to agree on what to watch on television it turned out to be something of a non-issue. Crowley would watch almost anything Aziraphale wanted - if only as an excuse to spend more time squashed into the angel bemoaning his choices - and Aziraphale liked nothing better than building up a good head of 'I can't believe I'm being forced to sit through this.'

Not to mention the fact that being on the sofa together means there's also an awful lot of kissing.

Most of it kissing that Austen wouldn't approve of.

Knock-off Austen would probably be fine with it though, she'd probably have one of those high-waisted dresses up to her tits before you could say ' _my father says we are not to see each other anymore_.'

"I can feel you judging the historical accuracy from here," Crowley says, bobbing half a glass of wine in the angel's direction.

"That man is wearing a wristwatch," Aziraphale points out, in the tone of voice that suggests that whatever fate befalls him he has it coming.

"Truly he's at the cutting edge of fashion," Crowley decides. "Good for him."

There's a bit of drifting around in drawing rooms, some brief but significant hand-touching between the lord of the house and his strapping valet and someone writes a sad letter.

"Well, the crushing boredom of the regency period certainly feels genuine anyway," Crowley offers. "I feel like I'm really there again."

"It was something of a surprise after the excitement of the seventeen hundreds," Aziraphale admits.

Crowley finishes his wine. The significant hand-touching has escalated to some loaded expressions and a yearning glance through a window. There's a good chance that someone's getting their kit off before the episode's over. Aziraphale's probably still too hung-up on the wristwatch to enjoy it. Crowley can't judge him too hard though, he's fairly sure he'd seen the dress the lead actress is wearing in H&M and it's bothering him.

"I feel like my time could be better spent eating you out while the sad one tries to impress Lord whatsisface with her piano playing." Crowley feels compelled to share that, for the sake of honesty.

Aziraphale's wine moves away from his mouth and manages not to spill on his trousers.

"You were the one who suggested watching something rather than -"

Technically true, but now Crowley's thinking about Aziraphale's thighs either side of his head. "I know, but this way you'll still get to watch it."

"You think I'll be able to concentrate while you -" Aziraphale blushes and it's adorable, because Crowley has had his tongue up the angel's arse at least twice a week since doomsday.

"That's half the fun." Crowley slithers off the sofa, into an untidy sprawl between Aziraphale's knees, leaving his empty glass on a stack of books - where it's immediately miracled away with a 'tsk.' "Listening to you trying to concentrate on historically accurate buttons while I tongue you open."

Aziraphale's mouth works a few times, as if he's struggling for an excuse. A futile endeavour, because the angel always ends up with at least one leg flung over Crowley's shoulder, gasping and panting in a way that the Austen knock-off would probably politely applaud.

Aziraphale squirms but doesn't protest when Crowley slides his hands up his warm, solid thighs - always greedy for a touch since he was given permission.

"This feels like an attempt to get out of watching the rest with me."

"It's mostly an attempt to have you arse up and squealing on the sofa." Crowley grins at him. "Show me your butthole, you tease."

Aziraphale's mouth makes an offended noise which Crowley could not be more in love with. "Crowley, _really_."

"What? It's a nice butthole, my favourite, ten out of ten."

"Please stop saying that."

Crowley's suggestive laughter is rewarded by Aziraphale's trousers and underwear relocating themselves across the arm of the sofa, leaving Crowley's palms on Aziraphale's soft, naked thighs - which he immediately spreads and throws over his shoulders, his thumbs sliding down to find the plush curves of Aziraphale's buttocks and easing them apart to reveal the hidden pink opening to his body.

"Look at that, beautiful thing, regency butthole." Crowley's having far too much fun now. "Historically accurate and everything."

"I will kick you in the face," Aziraphale says simply.

"You wouldn't," Crowley says. "You love me." He can say it now, he can say it because it's the truth.

Aziraphale's leg goes limp over his shoulder.

"You're impossible," he says simply. "Do get on with it, I expect you back up here before they get ball invitations."

Crowley gives him a jaunty salute.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Putting The Work In](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24900838) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)
  * [[Podfic] History Lesson](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183873) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)
  * [[Podfic] Putting The Work In](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183747) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)
  * [[Fanart] There Will Be Paperwork: Ch 4: Substitute](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25510561) by [SkyAsimaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyAsimaru/pseuds/SkyAsimaru)
  * [[Fanart] There Will Be Paperwork: Ch 6: I Found you Dreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25605718) by [SkyAsimaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyAsimaru/pseuds/SkyAsimaru)
  * [[Podfic] Trapped](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013259) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)
  * [[Podfic] The Masterwork](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26129827) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)
  * [[Podfic] Table Service](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27159524) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)
  * [[Podfic] The Muffin Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165818) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)
  * [[Podfic] Unexpected](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27173455) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)
  * [[Podfic] There Will Be Paperwork, Chapter 14: The Muffin Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27447676) by [SkyAsimaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyAsimaru/pseuds/SkyAsimaru)
  * [[Podfic] A Death In The Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28689549) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




End file.
